Jericho
by penelope1730
Summary: post- The Final Problem, or how Sherlock and Molly dealt with the aftermath of a 3 minute phone call.
1. Sherlock

SHERLOCK

A soft mist fell over London as heavy clouds of dense fog clung to the ground and trees, concealing Sherlock Holmes from the occupant of 24 Magnolia Way South. He briefly glanced down the street, where the car that dropped him off just seconds ago disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the dull, yellow glow of street lamps for company.

In his mind, Sherlock briefly replayed the conversation with John Watson in hopes to steady his courage for the few remaining steps to the door.

 _"Why are we here, John? It's three in the morning."_

 _"Because Molly needs some answers."_

 _"No need to wake her. I'm sure she's sleeping."_

 _"Yeah, I don't think that'll be a problem."_

Sherlock reached inside his Belstaff for the hidden pocket containing one tiny object - an object he was surprised wasn't found at Sherrinford. The key to 24 Magnolia Way South, Molly Hooper's home. Thumbing it between his long fingers and debating whether or not to use it, a light suddenly streamed from a second story window providing his answer.

He had no illusions that after what happened, the consequences of a three minute phone call, seeing Molly would be easy. For a brief moment, he wished he had the power to rewind the hands of time and go back to the days when he was able to dismiss the burden of emotions and sentiment with his usual vernacular: _Boring, Dull, Tedious, Affair, Leave, Go._ Everything was so much simpler then... But, things were no longer simple; they'd become complex, anarchic, and the answers he'd normally have were as mystifying as the fog that surrounded him.

In spite of himself, waves of anxiousness moved through Sherlock like the dangerous waters that crashed against the rocks around Sherrinford. Vacillating on Molly's doorstep, nervously chewing on his lip, he knew this was more than crossing the threshold of her home, but instead closing a chasm that had pulled them into its void. He had once asked Molly, in a moment of need, _"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"_ Without question, she followed him, kept his secrets, and held his life within her hands. He wanted to be the man she once trusted and believed in, for he'd come to show her he was the very least of these. There'd been too much water under their bridge and, with each betrayal or disappointment, Molly's walls became stronger, nearly impenetrable. The irony, he scoffed to himself, is that he helped guide her hand to build them, brick-by-brick.

He never felt comfortable with the sentiment of nostalgia; reminiscing for the sake of tracking time and superfluous events, placing them into neatly organized categories for easy recall, all for the sake of telling a story that would inevitably begin with _'Remember when...'_ And, yet, here he stood, the light mist now a steady rainfall, when he realized that's exactly what he'd done for the better part of three years. He tracked time, events and people, pulled them from his memory when the isolation of being gone for two years felt unbearable. Oh, but the past year...a lifetime had been squeezed into those months. Love found and lost. Birth and death. Ecstasy and pain. And, presently, long buried secrets revealed

Somewhere between all of that, dwelled his story with Molly...a very long beginning that came with a sharp ending. He told himself they were returning to normal but, deep down, Sherlock knew it was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, held together by a fragile thread of a bond they once shared. This had become their unspoken agreement. If he harbored any doubt, watching Molly ignore his call earlier in the day, confirmed his suspicion. It would be a miracle if she would even see him. After all, and with only a few exceptions, she hadn't spoken to him for nearly six months following _that_ day in the lab, when she slapped him for committing a betrayal against himself, and those who loved him. Only they both knew her slaps meant so much more.

As it is with dark, treacherous caverns, there were places in his mind Sherlock didn't like to venture; where the ground was shaky and left him stumbling. She was the shadowed figure standing at his bedside, after he'd been shot, that decided which way the scales tipped...redemption or ruin. There was no middle ground. It was late, the hospital quiet, and the only light streamed through the slatted blinds that covered the window.

 _"Would you like some water?" Molly asked, placing ice chips into a cup. Even though her voice was soft, there was an unmistakable edge of tension._

 _Sherlock nodded, and raised his bed. He took a sip from the glass Molly held, then watched as she sat down, her posture straight, too straight, with her hands folded neatly on her lap._

" _The trajectory of the bullet," she began, her face hidden in the shadows, "passed through the 7th intercostal space, nicking the upper quadrant of the liver in the process. There was significant blood loss, requiring multiple transfusions with eventual cardiac arrest. Your surgeon performed CPR for over two hours, ready to call time of death, when you self-resuscitated."_

 _"Lucky me," Sherlock offered a hollow retort, closing his eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment in hers. He knew all too well the tone of her 'Doctor' voice - pragmatic, factual, succinct. But, with him, it's how she distanced herself from anything too personal, and sometimes heartbreaking._

 _"I'm sure you know there was a search of all your...places. Your secret's safe, no one asked," She quickly continued._

 _Molly's eerie calm felt worse than the regret that tugged at him. He half wished she'd get it over with, yell at him, call him a bastard...anything but this. "Is that why you're here?" Sherlock's voice echoed with a cool somberness. Like Molly, his desire to detach struggled with the quiet battle taking place between them._

 _"No," She answered calmly, looking Sherlock in the eyes for the first time since she arrived. "You know everything's changed now."_

 _"Molly..." Sherlock began, reaching for her hand. But, she withdrew and walked to the door, stopping only briefly to say one last thing before leaving._

 _"I'm glad you pulled through."_

Sherlock rehashed his once brilliant plan so many times it left his mind aching. Every detail was accounted for, each nuance perfectly engineered. It was as though a power even greater than himself moved all the pieces on the chess board so he could finally, after all these long months, put an end to Charles Augustus Magnussen's blackmail. What he couldn't see, the speck on the lens, the fly in the ointment, was Mary. All the clues were present, staring him down, patiently waiting for him to catch-up and give way to what he already knew, but refused to believe. This, he remembered, was the destructive nature of sentiment...it blinds us to the obvious, makes fools of the otherwise intelligent, and leaves one longing to make right all that went wrong. No matter the cost. He loved Mary and if he could forgive her, then maybe Molly would find a way to forgive him.

He defended his reasoning for staying with her, insisting he never lied...although telling her _everything_ hardly seemed necessary. It was for a case, and her home the sanctuary to escape the calculated, deceptive game playing out at Baker St. The timing of her crumbling engagement was a boon. It could not have been more flawless, even though he saw it in the beginning, when he stood in the locker room at St. Bart's, surprising her with his return. What was lost on others, was evident to him. The look of restraint joy on her face, the quickening of her breath, and the fact there was a faint indentation on her left ring finger. Other than an occasional bracelet or earrings, Molly never wore jewelry. Not only was the engagement recent, the ring was loose and ill-fitting - another indicator of dubious commitment. No one bothered to have it properly sized. Any lingering questions were answered the following day spent crime solving together. Where one might expect happiness or excitement with their pending nuptials, Molly presented him with a rehearsed list of logical conclusions, presumably in an effort to convince herself she was making the right decision.

Disappointing as it was, Sherlock had to admit he never thought the engagement would go on as long as it did. Nevertheless, he promised himself he'd be kind, stay away, and leave her to draw her own conclusions. But, curiosity always found a way to get under his skin, taunting him to discover where she stalled with this man she would never marry. He never liked standing on the outside of Molly's life, and it took every ounce of strength to not wield the sword of truth to end it once and for all.

If Sherlock had any misgivings regarding his deductions, which he didn't, John and Mary's wedding left him feeling thoroughly vindicated. While guests watched the newly wed couple waltz gracefully along the dance floor, Molly's eyes were fixed on him, just as they were when he solved not one, but two cases of attempted murder. She was also the only person who noticed him leave - that he was sure of.

Sherlock's decision, then, was simple and resolute - he would stay with Molly, while he orchestrated a quick, but fraudulent relationship of his own. Besides, with his presence at her home, the balance of probability of Molly's jilted par amour manipulating his way back into her life, would be nearly impossible. He convinced himself this wasn't jealousy, but a desire to protect her when, in the end, what she needed was protection from him.

The long months of recovery saw him carefully balancing the painful separation amongst lovers and friends. John refused to speak with Mary, and Molly refused to speak with him. After murdering Magnussen, and isolated in a lonely prison cell, Sherlock thought of all the things he never said, things a better man would never ignore. Knowing what came next for him, the fact he would never again see her smiling face, listen to her awful jokes, or take in the subtle sweetness of her perfume, his letter would have to do.

 _Molly,_

 _By now, you've been told the events of Christmas day. Fate demands that I atone for my crime - murder is a bit 'not good' after all - and must once again leave England. It's doubtful we'll meet again, and I want you to know I am sorry. I hope, with time, you can find a way to forgive me. There are few people important in my life, that I call my friend, but you will always be the one who mattered the most. I will miss you - SH_

Turning up his collar against the cold, damp night, he waited nervously for Molly to answer. It had been several minutes and, still deciding if disappointment or relief prevailed, he heard nothing...not even the faint fall of footsteps approaching the door. If she was awake, and he was certain she was, she had to hear, know it was him, wouldn't she? Who else would be knocking on her door at three in the morning?

Bruised, aching and tired, he resigned himself to the inevitable. She was gone, if not physically, then in every other way that counted. Nothing would be gained by planting himself here, asking for something that would never come. Maybe it was for the best, he thought. Isn't that what he conveyed to John? That it was late, perhaps too late and some truths are best saved for the light of day.

Lost in thought, Sherlock didn't see the door open, or Molly watching him from the warmth of her entry hall. He wanted to speak, say something, to look beyond her bare feet and torn jeans, or her long, damp hair pinned sloppily at the back of her neck, and that her skin smelled fresh from some flower-scented soap. There were no words, only the relief that swept through him as he watched her standing in the doorway - breathing, unharmed and alive.

A slower man might have missed it, but Sherlock's foot caught the door just before it slammed closed. It was then he saw passed his own confusion...the weariness in her eyes, the way exhaustion held her body and how she didn't want to surrender to him, but lacked the will to fight. ' _Into battle'_ was the silent homage he offered himself for courage.

"Please?"

Molly's hesitation was brief before she walked away, door open, leaving Sherlock to stand in the rain. Uncertainty shadowed his footsteps as he followed behind, not taking his eyes off her as she entered a dimly lit sitting room. He carelessly flung his wet coat on the chair in the hall, and remembered to kick off his shoes before going further. It was a rule in Molly's meticulously clean house. When he stayed here, he once presented what he thought was a convincing argument on the merits of dust, organized chaos and shoe prints. He loved how she gazed upon him with awe, listening to his sound logic and theories, never once arguing against him, only to be met with a resounding 'No' when he was done.

At the time, he thought greater, more powerful people than Molly had tried and failed to get him to do what they wanted. But, there was no harm done under the pretense of this small concession. Besides, he liked it here, cleanliness and all.

Shaking away the memory of what could have been a happier time, his heart sank to see Molly standing in the darkened sitting room, her back against the large white bookshelf, arms crossed around her chest in an equitable act of protection and defiance.

"I thought you'd be sleeping." His voice, soft and low, broke the silence between them. He couldn't miss Molly's scoff, although it was hushed and barely there. Looking around, he noticed a suitcase sitting along side the staircase. _'She's going somewhere'_ was an automatic mental note.

"Are you okay?" He asked carefully, knowing the answer she had yet to speak.

She refused to look at him and kept her voice to a low hush. "No."

Nodding, Sherlock removed his suit coat and laid it neatly on the back of the pale blue sofa. Inching toward her slowly, he saw her nervousness, and maybe the desire to run, though there was no place to go.

Whether it was shock, or his audacity that won out, he took a wine glass from Molly's hand, placed it on the shelf and gently coaxed her into his embrace.

"I'm not okay, either," he soothed, his arms holding her tight, a single hand cradling her head against his shoulder. He wondered if it was selfish of him to stay here, his nose tucked in the strands of her hair and that if he never let go, she would always be safe.

"I thought I lost you," He murmured, swaying her body in measure with his own.

"You're holding me so tight, you might crush me."

A small laugh escaped Sherlock as he relaxed, placed a kiss on Molly's forehead, then drew her gaze to meet his. He fought long and hard against this, the entanglement of romance, but now that it was here, that his secrets continued to reveal themselves, he wondered why he ever struggled in the first place. There was a long ago, drunken conversation he had with John, when he nearly confessed something about Molly, but instead settled on a game and intellectual prose - _'Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models.'_ It was a relief John didn't know and, like so many others, remained unobservant. It wouldn't have gone well anyway, especially after the debacle with Janine. John would have reminded him of what he already knew, what he told himself for years. "You've always deserved better than me, Molly Hooper."

The scenes of their life flooded his memory, how he tried to make things work on his terms, wanting to believe they would always last, and she would always be here. He lingered longer than what made sense, committing the feel of her skin, knowing that he wanted her...more than anything. But, he knew, instead of a beginning, he could be standing at their end. His final problem wasn't saying _I love you_ , but that he was the last to know.

* * *

 **Story notes:** This piece was started shortly after The Final Problem aired, and to sorta fill an unwitting prompt from Steven Moffat, when he said: 'Sherlock's devastated, Molly had a drink and shagged someone.' But, after a while I got distracted (and bored) and wrote The Molly Diaries. Now, nearing on 2 years later, I'm shaking the dust off this baby and giving it a home...although still not sure it's a good idea. ;)

Special thanks to Violetjersey and SimplyShelby16xoxo from Tumblr for their infinite patience while beta reading and putting up with my endless editing, which still may not be enough. Kudos and comments are like water in a very long drought. :)

To those of who read this story - thank you! You have my heartfelt gratitude. 3


	2. Molly

Molly

It's funny how thoughts can move through your mind faster than the speed of light. Before you know you've thought something, it's already gone, sometimes barely leaving a trace that it was ever there. But, how it's left you feeling is a whole other matter. Sometimes, a feeling can linger for days, even years, drifting its way into the hidden and unknown, waiting to surprise you with its presence, just when you least expect it.

Molly was certain there had been moments when Sherlock's words washed over her like a waterfall - warm, inviting and even provocative. She would never admit to anyone, not even under torture, how she might find herself adrift, and sometimes aroused, while listening to him. He was completely synchronized with his intentions, his vocabulary exacting, that it was _more_ than listening. It was visceral, an experience in and of itself. And, it wasn't until after the moment passed that she realized how his words, the hum of his voice, captivated her so completely that she lost all sense of self and was somehow swept up in his world. Afterward, she would privately rebuke herself for letting her guard down, for allowing this part of herself exposed to his observation.

 _"Stop daydreaming, Molly. Whatever you're thinking is a complete waste of my time and no doubt yours."_

To appreciate beauty, one must also be able to recognize the not so beautiful, no matter how it might look. Molly didn't know why she allowed herself to be swept up in Sherlock's arms, held so tight she could barely breathe. She couldn't even tell you how it happened. One moment she wanted him gone, and in the next she felt herself pulled along side him, even though everything inside her said to run. Her feelings, she remembered, always betrayed her thoughts when it came to him. No matter how angry or hurt, and for those brief seconds, she melted in the sway of their bodies, and thought he clung to her as though his life depended upon it.

Their moment was brief before Sherlock's words broke the spell. They were the cautionary tale that this was nothing more than a finely crafted illusion, born from the trappings of a phone call and forced sentiment...words never meant to be said, or heard.

Molly willed her breath to remain steady and emotions in check. He had come to remind her that her that ' _they'_ would never be. Of course he would, she thought. After all, she was the one who told him to say _it_ like he meant it, not truly believing he did. It was a demand born from self-preservation, along with a keenness to challenge him at his own game.

She offered herself a small, conciliatory reminder that she had long ago shelved any romantic notions in an effort to remain his friend, but more importantly, shelter her heart. To think she could distance herself enough and go on like this ad infinitum was not only foolish, but a cruel mockery of her effort. If that weren't enough, the bottle of wine she'd been drinking did very little to brace herself for his patronization, and feigned concern.

Molly's voice was somber as she pushed free of his hold. The last thing she wanted was pity. "You got what you wanted, Sherlock. Leave me alone."

"What?" He asked, confusion twisting his handsome features.

"I played the game. You didn't need to come here."

He moved toward her slowly, his insistence growing. "That's not what happened...it wasn't a game,"

Molly scoffed and turned to leave. "Right." The sight of him left her feeling nauseous. She spent most of the day regretting she answered his phone call, only to continue her torment by allowing him passage into her home.

Sherlock winced, crossing the room in two long strides to stop her from leaving. "Do you really think I would do that to you?"

"Of course you would. Just...just go."

Sherlock grab her shoulders, holding her in place to face him. It was a flash, like those thoughts that move at the speed of light, but Molly couldn't mistake the panic in his eyes or worry etched across his face.

"You have to listen to me," He pleaded softly, his voice cracked with frustration. "There was a bomb...I was told you were going to die."

"W-What?"

"I had to make you say the code to live."

For the second time since Sherlock arrived, Molly felt her body pulled along side his, arms wrapped tightly around her, face cradled against his chest. It felt like the air had been viciously sucked from the room, leaving her knees to buckle. This time, however, she was certain that without his body for an anchor, she'd crumble to the floor.

Time always seems to pass in strange measures. When you want it to last, it slips through your fingers all too quickly. But, when you want to get on with it, time is stubborn and indifferent - grafting your bones to the very thing you do not want. Sherlock's words felt like ice, freezing Molly in limbo, her mind left numb for a response. She felt herself drift from his embrace, the movement of her arms and legs the consequence of a skilled puppeteer guiding the strings of his marionette. She sat on the edge of the sofa, heard Sherlock call her name, but her voice, like time, remained frozen.

"Molly?"

Even with her eyes were closed, Molly heard the faint groan of the coffee table as Sherlock sat down across from her, cradling her legs between his. She smelled the lingering scent of rain on his hair, the dried sweat of his clothes, and wondered why his hands felt swollen when he placed them along side hers.

"That's not what I expected," she whispered, relieved to find her voice, although her throat tight and painfully dry. "Who...who wants me dead?"

Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away. "No one. They wanted me...and used you as leverage."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It made sense to them."

Taking another deep breath, Molly tried to compose herself, but her mind raced with too many questions. She could always tell when Sherlock avoided something - the way he hid his face, or the tone of his voice, and it felt nerve-wracking. Like the lightening crackling outside of her home, she wanted to demand the truth, shake it out of him if need be.

"Who did this?"

"I can't say, not yet, but I promise you I will," he answered, continuing to avoid her gaze.

Molly shook her head and pushed on. "But, why me?" Maybe Sherlock couldn't answer _who_ did this, but he could bloody well answer _why._

"They knew..." His voice trailed, leaving Molly's breath to hitch. Sherlock didn't need to finish his thought - she understood all too clearly what he _wasn't_ saying: whoever did this knew she loved him and it became his liability.

"I see," Molly nodded, embarrassment prickling her cheeks. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, she unabashedly announced to the world she fell in love with him at first sight. Of course, she never mentioned his name, at least not until later, and that was only by mistake. But, she had since learned that loving Sherlock Holmes was not for the faint of heart and it was best tucked away in a quiet place, far from his reach, where no one ever saw. She wondered how she could have been so careless that a stranger would seek out her deepest secret, and steal it from her, without her noticing.

Sherlock drew Molly's hands to his lips. "No, you don't understand," he said softly, leaning in closer.

Molly noticed the desperation in his eyes, something more feral, a longing that kept her hooked in his gaze. He was so close that his breath, faint of whiskey, was warm across her face, and with the slightest shift on his part she felt certain their lips would meet.

"I love you."

His confession fell like a breathless whisper over the room where only the ticking of a distant clock could be heard. It was gone before Molly knew it and left her mind spiraling, wondering if she heard it in the first place.


	3. The Wall

The Wall

Or, When Things Unsaid Get Said

"W-What?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly then offered a sympathetic look. "How could you not know? You see everything about me...you couldn't see that, too?"

"Oh," Molly trembled, a gasp stuck in her throat. Jumping up, she stumbled over Sherlock almost falling in a need to escape. She felt incredibly dizzy, with the room closing in around her, shrinking by the second.

"Molly?" He reached out to steady her, but knew a panic attack when he saw one, and held back to watch her closely.

"T-that's...not what...um, oh...it's very warm in here, don't you think?" She mumbled, taking in panicked hitches of breath. Clumsily throwing back the shutters, she struggled with the lock on the window, her hands not moving fast enough to meet the desperate need for air.

"Open, damn it!"

At last, she sucked in long, deep breaths of the damp, night air. As with a priest's aspergillum, the cool droplets of rain sprinkled across her face, offering absolution and soothed the suffocating tides of anxiousness.

Several minutes passed before she noticed Sherlock behind her. "I'm sorry," she said, "I never thought..."

He edged in, shrinking the gap between them. "Are you alright?"

Closing the window, Molly wiped the rain from her face, then pinned him with a look of confusion. " _When?"_

" _When_ what?" Sherlock matched her confusion with his own.

Molly frowned. " _When_ did... _this_ happen?"

"Is that important?" He asked, his brow knitted in bewilderment.

"It's important to me."

Sherlock stammered, uncertain how to answer. Was it their first meeting, when she smiled brightly and stirred something inexplicable within him that he needed to leave quickly so she wouldn't see? Maybe it was the time he shot up the wall at Baker Street, when he saw how easily he was replaced? Or, was it all the imperceptible moments of the world they shared - their secrets etched in the nooks and crannies outside the view of others when she, unexpectedly, became his home away from home? That, when added together, left him struggling between the need to be separate, and the need to have her close. He couldn't tell her when, or what moment he shifted from friends to falling in love. He only knew it started long before today.

"I...I don't know."

Molly took the wine glass from the book shelf and quickly drank down what was left. It wasn't nearly enough and she wished to God she opened the bottle of Glenlivet first. Aside from the threat to her life, she had no idea what happened, or why Sherlock would continue to make an incredulous pronouncement of love. She was exhausted from the games, especially those at her expense.

"Of course you don't." She released a weary sigh. "Go home, Sherlock."

"I don't understand."

"You're the detective. Figure it out," Molly murmured, pushing past him to leave.

"Just wait." Sherlock grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. "What's happening?"

"Forget it."

"Talk to me. Please."

Looking down at her hands, Molly fidgeted with her fingers as though this would somehow settle the battle between saying too much, or not enough. She felt the sharp jolt of sadness of her words, even before she spoke them. "After you called, the first thing I wanted to do was leave. I still might." She took in a deep breath to steady her courage and cast a quick glance to her travel bag. "But, now...I-I feel relieved. At some point, I have to choose better for myself and I won't do this anymore...this thing we do."

Sherlock flinched. "You think I'm incapable of understanding my own hubris?"

"No. But, you've never wanted this, so I hope you can appreciate why I don't believe you."

"You're wrong," he insisted, shaking his head, wanting to dismiss her words as untrue.

"Really? How would I know?"

"I made an error in judgment, one I regret," he interrupted. "I was wrong and you would have known that had you talked with me. Six months and nothing from you." He threw Molly a hurtful stare. It was for a case and if she only knew the _whole_ truth behind Magnussen, and Mary, the last thing she'd be asking about would be this. "But, I never lied to you."

"You manipulated the truth...took away my choice."

"I know what I did." Sherlock walked away, running a brisk hand through his tangled mess of curls. It's what he always did when frustrated, or lacked the control he so desperately sought. He stopped in the doorway, his long arms stretched out as though he were suspended from its wooden frames. Molly thought the light that shadowed him from behind made his disheveled silhouette eerily imposing, like a scarecrow about to come to life. "I thought you forgave me?" His pool grey eyes were fierce with something between innocence and sorrow.

"I did...it's just-"

"Just what?" he asked, stepping in closer.

Molly stood her ground. "You don't make it easy, Sherlock. You are completely reckless with your life, and...and indifferent to anyone who might actually care."

"Meaning you."

Molly scoffed. "Not just me."

He paced a trail around her, watching her closely, as though he a predator and she his prey. His voice was cool, calculated even, and Molly knew the very last thing he had at this moment was control.

"If I had told you, would you have agreed?" He asked.

"Of course not!" Her voice quaked, the hurt and anger feeling nearly as real as when she slapped him a year ago. "What you did...how is that any different than what Jim did to me?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock snapped a correction, surprising himself as much as Molly. There were few things he detested more than hearing her refer to his enemy by his first name. The intimacy it implied left him feeling uneasy, most especially knowing Moriarty's involvement with Eurus. "I'm _not_ a psychopath and I wasn't strapping people to explosives and blowing them up." He flung his hands into the air to emphasize his point.

"No. You just nearly died!" The memory of John's frantic phone call lay thick in Molly's mind. There was no customary greeting, but instead barely audible words, clumsily strung together with panicked gasps of breath _..."Oh, God, he's been shot, Molly. He's dying, I think he's dying."_ The following hours were spent outside the surgical suite, pacing the floor, her mind numb except for a silent mantra offered as prayer, _'please let him live_ ' until, finally, her body puddled to the floor of her home, where regret and pain found their uncontrollable release with tears.

"Sorry to disappoint," he added coolly, regretting the words even as he spoke them. "Do you really believe I hadn't thought of every option?"

"Before or after you were high?" Molly threw a defiant barb. "And, no, I don't think you did."

Unable to resist, he bit back churlishly. "I did what I had to do,"

"And you wonder why I don't trust you." Molly's steps were decisive as she stormed to the liqueur cabinet, impatient to find the bottle of scotch she'd been wanting, _needing_ , for the last thirty minutes.

"It had nothing to do with you."

"You came to me, remember?" She stood, confronting him. "You pulled me in, needed my help."

"I couldn't exactly stay at Baker Street now, could I."

"You have other places."

Sherlock leaned in so close his nose nearly touched her own. "They don't all come with a master ensuite and Egyptian cotton."

"I'm not Airbnb, Sherlock," she scoffed.

"No, but..." he answered quickly, but stopped himself short.

"But what?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

"But what," she said, her temper rising.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice? Your breakup at John and Mary's wedding..."

"What? You left...there was no break- Oh!"

Realization felt like a sticky web that wrapped its tight strands around Molly, holding her in place as each memory of when Sherlock stayed with her came into view, offering the recognition of what was always there, only hidden in plain sight. Her legs feeling unsteady, she reached for the sofa to sit down. "That's why," she said softly, remembering the day everything fell apart...

* * *

 _"You'll never marry him."_

 _Molly stopped filling Toby's bowl and noticed Sherlock watching her. There was something different in the way he held himself...the way his eyes followed her as she stood up. A warm pulse ran up the length of her spine and, rather suddenly, she felt very self-conscious. She nervously straightened out the crease left in her dress from kneeling._

 _"Sorry...what?"_

 _"Where's the bridal magazines? The planning books?"_

 _"Sherlock," she began, removing and adding items to her small black clutch. "Being John's best man doesn't make you Preston Bailey_."

 _"You haven't set a date."_

 _"Some people take their time," she answered dismissively._

 _"Why? You're thirty-five, what are you waiting for?"_

 _It irked Molly to watch him stir his tea nonchalantly, as though he could camouflage his imperiousness while discussing her wedding, or it's delay, like something as normal as the weather. And, even that wouldn't be 'normal' - not for them. They talked murder, cause and effect, theorems and hypothesis...who cared if it was about the molecular structure of different waters, sugar vs. honey, or the implausibility of someone walking through stones and falling through time._

 _"Don't you want a family?" Molly heard him continue, his voice seemed to come from the far off distance. "Pregnancy and childbirth is harder on geriatric women."_

 _"Excuse me?"_

 _"You know the risks-"_

 _"You're not the doctor here," she interrupted sternly._

 _"No, but Mary's pregnant and I've been reading."_

 _"I'm not Mary."_

 _"Am I wrong?"_

 _Molly breathed through the threshold of frustration as she moved toward the door to leave. "Not everyone wants the same thing."_

 _"Take an overnight bag," he called after her, the irritation in his voice evident. "Doubtful you'll bring him home."_

 _Molly froze, anger prickling her face and ears. "W-what?"_

 _"It might be a bit awkward since you haven't told him I'm staying here."_

 _"I...I...that's..." She stammered, nonplussed._

 _"Or, would you prefer we work out a signal?"_

 _Molly rounded on him. "What I do, or don't do, with my fiancé is none of your concern."_

 _"You're still engaged? I didn't realize, what with no ring and the fact you haven't spoken with him in nearly a month."_

 _"Stay out of things you know nothing about."_

 _"Roommates should help each other out, don't you think?"_

 _"This is my home, Sherlock. You can leave."_

 _It had been nearly an hour since Molly stormed from the house, only to sit in her car while her anger dissolved into tears. She had sent Tom a text cancelling their date, effectively ending whatever hope remained for their engagement. Looking in the rear view mirror, she dabbed away streaks of mascara, fluffed the curls in her long hair, then made her way back to the house. No need to look bad when attempting to save face._

 _She thought it would have been a blessing if Sherlock had actually left, but the dim light streaming down the hall, in a dark house, told her otherwise. Molly never liked it when he was right about things like this, or the easy arrogance he employed while highlighting the fractures in her personal life. Normally, she'd avoid him for as long as possible, at least until there was enough distance between them and whatever they argued about. It was simpler that way...pretending as though nothing ever happened._

 _Standing quietly in the threshold of her bedroom door, she watched Sherlock remove case photos from the wall and toss them haphazardly into a box. Catching each other's gaze, they waited to see who would be first to break the prickly standoff that hung between them._

 _"I'm sorry," they said in unison._

 _"Please forgive me," Sherlock added._

 _Molly offered a sad smile, her chin quivering as she spoke. "You were right...about everything. I...um-"_

 _"Chinese?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"Or, chips," he paused for breath, moving toward her. "You look lovely...too lovely to stay in."_

 _"Well, I..."_

 _"Then again," he picked up the remote to the Bose and hit play. "Dance with me?" He stretched out his hand and pulled her into an embrace before she had the chance to say no. "Needs must, since we missed our chance at the wedding."_

 _She wanted to ask if he was the devil driving, but instead made a mental note about how warm her hand felt wrapped inside his. "You were busy...crime solving."_

 _"Three crimes, actually. A new milestone for wedding receptions."_

 _"It was memorable."_

 _"And not a meat dagger to be found."_

 _"Oh, god..." she whimpered, burying her head into his chest._

 _He couldn't contain the broad grin that swept across his face. It was a simple pleasure, but he loved making her smile. "All forks are secured behind lock and key."_

 _Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. "Wait. How did-"_

 _"Mrs. Hudson. She thought it a bold move. I found it oddly refreshing and a bit salacious. John would have a field day...The Case of the Pathologist and The Injurious Flatware. It's a got a ring to it, don't you think?"_

 _"Oh, Christ..."_

 _"One more, Molly, and you'll have covered the holy trinity. But, to be fair, there were no dwarves either."_

 _She melted into laughter as he moved her into a spin. "They tried," she added._

 _"Please," he said, rolling his eyes, until he caught Molly giving him a half-hearted look of disapproval. "Sorry."_

 _They settle into a comfortable silence, dancing slowly in the soft light. Molly felt his hand trail to the curve of her lower back, pulling her in closer, and for those brief moments she basked in his warmth and felt the guiltless relief of her broken engagement._

 _"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and intoxicating. "Stunning."_

 _"What's gotten into you?" she asked, breathlessly._

 _Pulling away, he lifted her face to meet his. "You."_

* * *

"That's why you stayed with me...to ruin it?"

"No...No! I had nothing to do with it...it was all you." He rubbed at the exhaustion settled around his eyes. "I only filled a space so you could see."

"But why?"

Sitting down before her, Sherlock gently brushed away the loose strands of hair that fell over her face. "Because you looked sad when you thought no one could see."

Molly turned away, squeezing back the tears brimming her eyes. "Those are my words," she whispered.

"It doesn't make them less true," he said, removing the pin from her falling hair knot.

"I...I didn't ask."

"Why not? You never ask for anything. Isn't that what friends do - they ask things of each other?"

It was a valiant effort, but the day had been too long and the combustible mix of fear, loss and grief demanded its pound of flesh. Her pride dissolved, warm tears streaked across Molly's face, where a few laid their salty bitterness against her tongue. "What would I ask for from you?"

"Everything! I would have given you everything, Molly," he exhaled shakily. "Two years, and not a day went by when I didn't think of you...what you did for me, what that meant. I didn't expect things to be the same when I came back," he shot her a pained look, "but I never thought you'd leave me...cut me out of your life."

Molly was dumbstruck. Whatever she had expected him to say, this wasn't it, and it felt like the air had been kicked from her lungs.

"Y-you never said-"

Cupping her face between his hands, his thumbs wiped away newly fallen tears. "I swear to you, I wanted your happiness...but, I saw it, even in the beginning."

"It?"

"He wasn't the love of your life. He was making you choose."

"Oh..." With the back of her hand, she wiped away at her impossibly wet face and runny nose.

"You had to have known. Why keep it going?"

Molly's breath hitched with sobs. "Because...because..."

Leaning his forehead against hers, he whispered, his voice broken and raw. "I wanted you to choose me."

Molly paused, her mind still reeling, and attempted to quiet the insistent tears before speaking. "You didn't want me..."


	4. The Virgin

Warning to readers: This chapter is NSFW, so if that's not your thing...scroll to the end for the last bit of important dialogue. :)

* * *

The Virgin

Sherlock was barely seven when he first heard the word 'virgin,' while holidaying with his family in Rome, touring St. Peter's Basilica. He and Mycroft had lagged behind their parents, when he asked his older brother what it meant, why Mary was given that name?

 _Sherlock stared at the carved marble statue, The Pietà by Michelangelo, his round, pale blue eyes narrowed in confusion. "Why do they call her the virgin?"_

 _"It's a dull story, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed with boredom, "meant to astound the minds of the ignorant masses with an incredulous phenomenon."_

 _"But, what does it mean?"_

 _"It means that Mary conceived a baby," Mycroft nodded to the statue, "Jesus, through inhuman means."_

 _Sherlock stared blankly at his older brother, not nearly satisfied with his answer._

 _Rolling his eyes, Mycroft conceded. "The stork brought the baby. Can you please stop asking questions," he pleaded. "The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can go back to the apartments."_

 _"I'm not stupid. Babies don't come from storks, Mycroft, they grow in wombs."_

 _"Yes." Mycroft considered his younger brother, deciding to answer more truthfully. "And that's what makes the story fantastical. The baby didn't come to Mary's womb by natural means. It was planted by a ghost."_

 _"There's no such thing as ghosts."_

 _"Which is why it's unbelievable, little brother."_

 _"All these people believe it. Why?"_

 _"Because sometimes, Sherlock, a lie is easier to accept than the truth."_

* * *

Over time, he adopted, or been given, many names but none could have been more incongruous than that of 'The Virgin.' It never bothered him that his sexuality was questioned, or that people bored with their own little lives would wonder about his. After all, he accomplished what he set out to do those many years ago...manufacture a lie so ludicrous, it was more believable than the truth. Except for his brother, the interfering savior, who would pull him out of one sexual indiscretion after another, along with more dosshouses than he cared to remember.

 _"For God's sake, Sherlock, this has got to stop before..." Mycroft cut himself short, angrily pacing the library floor of his home. "You realize your behavior is a disgrace."_

 _Sherlock stretched out on the rich, brown leather sofa, barely listening...the smell of Sophia was still too fresh on his skin. "And, which behavior would that be? Oh, that's right, the one that sullies your perfect reputation."_

 _Mycroft sneered. "Don't be ridiculous. Rest assured, little brother, if you went that far, I could bury you so deep even our parents wouldn't know where to look."_

 _Sherlock scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."_

 _"Don't tempt me," he warned, rubbing at the frustration that contorted his face "No, Sherlock, it's off to the colonies with you. There's not a center left in Britain that will take you in."_

 _Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at his brother, before rolling over on his side. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Mycroft?"_

 _"Yes, making sure you board the jet I arranged for you."_

 _"You can't be serious?" he questioned, holding his head from the dizzying effect of sitting up too quickly._

 _"Oh, I am, little brother, and so will our parents when I inform them of your latest...escapade." A look of revolt fell over Mycroft's face when he emphasized the last word._

 _"There's no need to bring them into this!" Sherlock glared. "They're perfectly content doing whatever it is...they do."_

 _"And, you, brother mine," he barked, "are the one disrupting their contentment. You're very lucky, Sherlock, that Inspector Lestrade owed me a favor. Look at you. You're twenty-five years old, a graduate of the highest honors in chemistry, and this is what you're doing with your life." Mycroft sat down behind his desk, his anger softening. "Is there nothing you want?"_

 _"Sophia, until you rudely interrupted-"_

 _"She's the wife of a cabinet minister!"_

 _Sherlock crossed the room and leaned over his brother's desk, facing him nose-to-nose. "So what! It was only sex, Mycroft. Maybe if her husband paid more attention to her, than the boys in the stable house... Oh! You didn't know that, did you? Does that alarm you...about your precious 'minister'?"_

 _"Sex doesn't alarm me, Sherlock."_

 _"How would you know."_

* * *

The irony, he thought, years later, is that this is how he used to see her...the Virgin. Not that she was as pure as the driven snow, but because of her Pollyannaism naiveté. He was warned before he met her, on that perfectly unassuming day, when she was described as 'bit different' and 'walking innocence,' causing him to scoff at the ridiculous notion, especially for someone who sliced up bodies for a living. He was right, because she was so much more. She was a dichotomy - a walking paradox that irritated him in her presence, and fascinated him in her absence. Her heart was made very different than his, which was evident because she liked him. For no reason at all. Simply because he existed and it left him feeling very uneasy and suspicious.

Then again, he would never admit to all the times she saved him, or how he came to rely upon her. He would never let her see that he cared, and that she was important. It was better to believe the lie and convince her of its truth. Until it wasn't. He needed her...all of her...the genius pathologist, the friend who he trusted with his life...the one person who, in spite of everything, was always there for him. She didn't think she counted, but she couldn't have been more wrong.

He kissed her before he left...before two years of aloneness consumed every corner of his life...away from London, from all the things he cared about. It was meant to be chaste, a token of gratitude, affection shared between two friends saying good-bye for a very long time, perhaps forever. But, something happened...something he never expected. He knew all too well the charge that gripped his body, the chill that ran over his skin, the force that crashed them together...taking her deep within his mouth...his mind arguing for him to let go...don't look back and forget this ever happened. And, that's what he did...he broke free, leaving her breathless, walked out the door and for two years gave her nothing...not even a clue that he was alive.

In the quiet moments of separation, him where he was and she someplace else , when it was safe to indulge his imagination and only his hand to pleasure himself, he thought of her. And, he promised himself that when he saw her again, he'd be gentle while running a tender hand over her naked body. He promised to drink her in as she slid slowly, sensually over his body. He promised to take care when cupping her breasts, tasting and licking her skin, listening to her moan from pleasure. He promised to be gentle when his fingers traced a slow trail up her inner thigh, sliding them between her warm, wet folds...watching her shudder as he came inside her.

Gone were all the promises.

There was nothing gentle in the way he kissed her...the sharp pull of her mouth to his...the force of lifting her hips as he stood...pushing his tongue passed her lips and stealing her breath for his own.

She broke away, her breath ragged. " _You bastard_ ," was the last defense to pass over her swollen lips before surrender...and, he'd let her have it, if it meant he could fuck her senseless...shove his cock so deep and hard within her, all memory of any other man erased. This was primal...animalistic...but he swore to the God he never believed in, as he captured her mouth and gripped her round ass to pull her close, he'd do anything for her. She belonged to him.

He would have called it 'frenzied.'

She would have said 'otherworldly.'

But none of that mattered when they couldn't remove their clothes fast enough.

It was exciting.

It was thrilling.

It was the perfect marriage between all their soft and hard parts; when the unspoken needed no words; and the aching pangs of desire entangled with love.

She released a high pitch gasp at the frightening arousal of his strength, and the power he wield tossing her body onto the sofa as though she were a rag doll, violently spreading her legs to burying his head between her thighs, his unshaven face rough against her soft, shaven skin. Her hips arched against the intensity of his teeth and tongue...biting...licking.

She was too roused to care that his fingers, clenched deep within her skin would leave her bruised. God help her, none of that mattered...she wanted this...wanted every inch of him to mark every inch of her.

All of this was new; a delicious improvisation of their senses.

She ached at his tortuously slow hands, memorizing every curve and dip, his fingers rotating the peak of her perfect breast, watching her writhe from his touch, until his mouth covered hers...where she tasted herself...on his tongue...along his lips...and where she mingled with his faded aftershave and sweat.

He wanted her for all the times he couldn't have her. He wanted her for leaving him... forgetting he was in this world and that he needed her. He wanted her because he was childish and desperately stingy in his possession of her. But he was hers...through the rise and fall of all their tides, he would always belong to her.

Tumbling to the floor, their desperate urgency consumed them. She frantically reached between his legs, he jerked her hips to meet his, thrusting himself deep inside, galvanizing their bodies together. " _Not want you_..." he groaned, shoving harder...stronger, pulling the long strands of her hair like reins and he the rider. " _I can't stop wanting you..."_

They were at war, battling an invisible enemy that kept them separate for too long, one that stripped away their agency, leaving them frightened they might never win and would be lost to one another for all time.

They had no choice but to obey the needful demand of their bodies, cocooned in this moment where his breath, hot and unyielding against her skin, and her lips soft against his mouth, left every sense heightened, clinging to each other as though it were their last.

His thrusts became more forceful, insistent, and she held tight to the strong muscles of his back as their bodies stiffened, a furious wave crashing against and through them...suspending them in timelessness...until they gave way to its force, their strangled cries echoing through the room when, finally, the weight of him fell upon her.

"Don't move," he whispered, breathless, his heart pounding thunderously against her chest. She had no desire to argue. It was hard to breathe, but she wasn't ready to let go of this moment where his body blanketed hers, the smell of him heady of sex.

The new memory of him swam through her mind...how smooth he felt slipping out of her, his warm stickiness slowly dripping down her thighs and buttocks.

He kissed her neck, and dragged his lips across her collarbone with a satisfied moan, rolling onto the floor along side of her. His breath slowed, became more even and, without looking, he reached out a hand knowing exactly where to find hers. "Come here," he whispered, pulling her body to his.

It's funny, she thought to herself, the memories that surface at the most unexpected times. She remembered when he stayed with her, before the _'things took an unexpected turn'_ part, how safe she felt. She remembered how much they'd grown and changed to be in each others company, where they found an easy rhythm, liked the comfort of their closeness. It's how she felt now, her head resting inside the crook where his arm met his chest, his heart returning to a slower and steady beat, safe and at ease.

"Don't go to Bart's." He wasn't asking.

"I'm not," she answered lazily, gently rocked by the hum of his breathing, fighting against sleep.

"Good," his voice trailed. "I'm not done with you yet."

They both smiled.

"Hard floor or soft bed?" He was asking.

She groaned. "Soft bed...too tired to move."

"Do I have to carry you?"

"Mmmmm." She nodded, her eyes closed.

He stretched, pulling himself up, leaving her whimpering on the floor.

"I get the left side," he said, taking her hands as she stood, but kept her next to him and placed a hand over her breast, as though seeing it new...through a different set of eyes. He leaned in and kissed the skin between the fine bone below her neck and where his hand rested, his other hand tracing gentle circles along her hip.

She laid her head on his arm, her fingers knotting his chest hair, surprised to feel the familiar twitch rise in her belly so soon...leaving her quite certain it wouldn't take much to be ready for him again.

He kissed the tiny space just behind her ear, her neck rolled to the side for him to take more. "I love you," he whispered, his breath cool upon her still-warm-skin. He kissed a trail to her mouth, his tongue tracing her lips-

Their moment interrupted by the harsh shrill of a mobile phone.

He groaned with frustration.

"It's been buzzing for some time," she said, softly kissing the underside of his chin.

He sighed. "I've been ignoring it."

"It could be important."

"It's Mycroft." He grabbed his suit coat off the sofa.

She felt the sudden chill of his absence, even though he was only a few steps away, and bent down to grab his pants, tossing them over. "Your pocket's ringing."

He looked at the unfamiliar phone, his own presumably still at Sherrinford, and saw he had five missed texts. "Mycroft," he answered, his voice was low and gravelly.

She tugged a chenille throw off the back of the chair, wrapping it around her shoulders, and began picking up their clothes. His shirt...minus a few buttons...her jeans and long sleeve t-shirt... his boxers...oh, and one sock...the other must be here someplace...then looked at him, his phone call eerily quiet.

"Get dressed," he said, slipping his long legs into his trousers. "We have to leave."

"What?"

He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Pack for a couple of days." He took the rest of his clothes from her arms and finished dressing. He just remembered that Baker Street blew up and the shirt he was now wearing, torn with half the buttons missing, and his pants dried with mud, could possibly be the last of his possessions.

"Wait. What's happening?" She quickly slid into her jeans, then pulled on her shirt. "W-where are we going?"

He tucked the mobile phone inside the pocket of his jacket, and gave her a wink. "Fancy a drive to the countryside?"

She found the long hair pin and pushed it into the thick knot she quickly twisted, watching him stop in the hallway, looking at her suitcase.

"You've already packed."

She turned the coffee table upright and picked up the empty bottle of Shiraz, grateful for the fact it didn't break. "Not for London."

"Then where for?" He wasn't successful in hiding the disappointment in his voice.

"Bali." She could tell by the look that fell over his face that this was the last place he would have suspected. Well, at least not the first.

He shook his head to push away both exhaustion and confusion. "Never mind. Throw a bag together...I'll bring your car around front." He grabbed the keys from the small, silver dish in the entry hall and called after her. "Take the cat. We can pick up anything he needs on the way."

"I can't."

He slowly peered around the corner. "Why?"

"That...that was my bad day, when you called. Toby was poisoned...he died."


	5. The Broken Sky Over Surrey

The Broken Sky Over Surrey

 _"Hello. My name is Molly," she paused momentarily, allowing the large group of people to return her greeting. "I'm an addict. I suppose it all started with my first drink when I was eleven...the way the smooth liquid hit my mouth - the electric feeling of all my taste buds waking up, how it burned sliding down my throat, and the wonderful, bitter aftertaste that left me wanting more. No, I don't 'suppose' it started there...I know it did. For the longest time, I tried to hide it," she scoffed. "I mean, I was so young, but also very clever so that my parents never caught on that it was me raiding the cupboard, stealing from the finest reserves and not ever feeling guilty - well, not too much, that is - when my mother scolded the household staff for their wanton mismanagement._

 _"I'm English...I'm suppose to love tea, and I do...at certain times, with honey, and maybe if it's a lovely French Earl Grey with a pinch of lavender. Oh, who am I kidding. It's never been about tea...I'm a coffee addict and I can't give it up. I don't want to."_

Startled, Molly's eyes widened when the car door opened, the cool, damp morning air rushing against her warm skin, comfortably nestled within the heated leather seats of her Volvo. But, it was the seductive scent of coffee that caused her to moan, close her eyes and smile...drawing a curious look from Sherlock.

"Thank you," she whispered, both hands clasped around the cup, taking a careful sip of the dark, steaming liquid.

Sherlock placed his own cup in the center console, then tossed his coat in the back seat, before settling himself in. "I wonder about you sometimes, Molly. Your need for coffee borders on obsession."

"I didn't hear you complain at the suggestion. I think you're exact words were 'God, yes.'"

"I suppose it's cheaper than dinner," he said, with a teasing smile, until he saw Molly's dangerous glare.

She laid her head back in the seat, and turned to look at him. "Besides, within minutes after having..." Molly made a gesturing motion with her hand as a 'fill in the blank' charade.

"Sex?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Then -"

"Do you have a problem with sex?"

"No," she answered emphatically, her face knitted in confusion.

"You're having regrets?"

"Not yet."

"You're planning on having regrets?"

She sighed. "My expectation bar is non-existent, but anything's possible."

"That hurts my feelings."

She rolled her eyes. "Which one?"

"All of them."

"Short list, then," she said, knowing that he was distracting her from her real question. "So, why did I have to leave?"

He pulled into traffic, taking a left turn toward the Westway. "Your life was threatened, I think that speaks for itself."

"Whoa." She sat upright, feeling the grip of panic rise in her chest. "You _implied_ the threat wasn't real, but used as leverage."

"Safety first."

"Or, an afterthought."

"It's just a simple precaution."

"How so? If-"

"Work with me, Molly," he interrupted. "It's only for a couple of days."

"A couple of days? Wait...wait!" She suddenly noticed the highway sign pointing to the A-40. "Why are you going this way? I thought we were going to Baker Street?"

Sherlock remained quiet. This wasn't the first time he thought it odd she hadn't mentioned the explosion at Baker Street, leading him to conclude she didn't know. He suspected that his phone call to her would have gone differently, probably much easier, had she been aware. Although he hoped to avoid the topic until later, Molly's piercing gaze bore into him and it was clear she wasn't going to let it go. "There was a slight problem," he said, clearing his throat. "Baker Street is temporarily unavailable."

"Stop my car."

"What?"

"Pull over."

Sherlock thought people were often mislead by Molly's normally pleasant and kind disposition. It's what she wanted them to see. What they didn't know, however, until they were blindsided, is her fiery temper. The temper that might lead her to slap them, take over the wheel, nearly cause an accident, if they didn't do what she wanted. In this case - him.

Merging across lanes of morning traffic, he pulled into an empty car park, and turned off the engine. "What?" He offered her his best innocent look.

"Talk."

"Well," he released a sigh, "it's still early and traffic isn't too bad, but this delay-"

"For Christ's sake," she snapped, getting out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

He followed her, although kept a safe distance. "Molly, I promise no one is secretly staying at Baker Street."

"Give me the keys," she demanded, extending her hand.

"No."

"Fine." She pulled out a set of keys from her pocket, dangled them in his face, before heading back toward the car. "I always carry extra."

"Okay, stop!" He took a deep breath and resigned himself to the inevitable. "Baker Street...blew up."

Molly halted in her tracks, then slowly turned around. He watched her expression go from disbelief to realization - when she understood he wasn't joking - landing somewhere around horrified.

"Blew up...wh...what do you mean, blew up?"

"Boom! Everyone's fine, except the flat, in case you were wondering."

Her hands were visibly shaking. "Why...why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to alarm you."

"Alarm me!?" Her mouth open in astonishment, she looked at him as though he were alien. "Sherlock, almost three hours ago, you show up on my doorstep looking like a lost jackal, expressed feelings of love and then put your penis in me. _That_ was alarming. It was a quantum leap into a parallel universe where I have no idea who you are, or what the hell is going on! I've been in a state of alarm since you first called. Baker Street blowing up...'alarming' as that is, I'm actually surprised didn't happen sooner, especially given your latest Breaking Bad scheme!"

"I was not making meth," he answered quickly, shocked at her assertion.

"Sorry, I must have confused you and Igor with someone else."

"Wiggins would be offended."

"Wiggins can bite me. When did this happen?"

"Yesterday morning. Someone wanted my attention."

"Are there explosives in my house?"

"No. It's being checked as a precaution."

Her eyes narrowed. "What else aren't you telling me?"

"A lot."

"About me?"

"Hmmm, some."

"Tell me," she demanded.

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"You won't like it."

"That's never stopped you before," she scoffed, then calmed down slightly, the need to know overtaking her growing panic. "How bad?"

He took in sharp breath and winced. "You _really, really_ won't like it."

"Oh my god," she whimpered, tears forming in her eyes.

"Exactly. I promise I'll tell you everything when we get to where we're going."

"Where's that?"

"Mycroft's. It not far and he's not home."

"Of course he's not home." She stormed passed him, opening the car door.

He cast her a wary eye. "How do you know?"

She slid into the car and fastened her seatbelt. "Quid pro quo, Sherlock."

"Watching _'Silence of the Lambs'_ again, Clarice?" He snapped on his seatbelt and started the car. "I would have solved it, in record time, without ever having to speak with Lector."

Molly shook her head in frustration. "As you kept telling me. Throughout the whole movie."

"At least I didn't decide to go vegan," he said, making a face of disgust. "You have to admit, it was a fairly easy case. I doubt I would have left my flat."

"I didn't go vegan, and you no longer have a flat to not leave," she added stubbornly.

"A minor technicality."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

* * *

Molly shifted in the seat, stared out the window and allowed the peace of the countryside to soothe the anxiousness over everything Sherlock wasn't telling her. Her eyes felt heavy as the silence between them lingered, but heard him ask about swimming lessons with Rosie.

"It's fine," she said, unable to shake the sleepiness. "About the same when you asked two weeks ago."

"Two weeks ago?" He felt genuinely confused, which had to be a first.

"After cake, on the way back to Baker Street."

"Hmmm."

"You were making small talk," she murmured.

"Not surprising I don't remember. Why Bali?"

She perked, momentarily, deciding how much she wanted to say, if anything. She could say it's somewhere she always wanted to go, or possibly a random pin of the map. Then again, she could tell him the truth...that she had picked a date, a Christmas wedding, with their honeymoon in Bali. All the bridal books he thought she didn't have were kept at her soon to be mother in law's home, where her plans remained quiet. There would be a small gathering of Tom's family at his grandparents place outside Edinburgh. It was easier this way, maintaining the privacy of her new life, keeping her eyes forward to let go of all the things she thought would never be.

"Molly?"

She closed her eyes against the emerald green landscape as daylight slipped through the broken skies over Surrey. "Just a spin of the globe."

"You're not normally...spontaneous."

"People change," she answered softly, then drifted off into sleep.

* * *

Molly woke with a gentle hand brushing along her cheek. "Wake up," the distance voice said. "We're here."

It was a hard wake-up...the kind where you've barely been asleep, but when you do wake, it feels like a mist of confusion - the unawareness of who you are, where you are, the time of day, or the understanding of what's taking place around you. The phrase, she remembered, was cognitive impairment.

She yawned and stretched out her back. "Mmm...what?"

"You snore," Sherlock said, but threw her a quick wink before taking her bag from the back seat.

She stepped outside of the car and shivered against the chilly air. "No, I don't."

"How would you know?"

"Because I do." She yawned again. Maybe it was the fogginess still lifting from her mind but, without warning, the sound of pea gravel tumbling under her shoes conjured memories of her childhood home...the circular gravel drive surrounding perfectly trimmed hedges, with a statue of three Virtues in the middle as its crowning glory. She snapped out of her musing to hear Sherlock explain something, even though she missed most of what he said.

"Well, technically both of ours," he said, unlocking the front door. "My uncle left it to us, but...not my thing."

"Yes, I know," she answered softly, remembering the first time she was here.

""What?"

"Nothing."

Stepping in behind him, she took in the warmth of the stately Edwardian Tudor, and held back a smile in her nostalgia of the deep red carpets, and the precision of finely honed woodwork set against expansive leaded glass, heighten by the jeweled tone fabric, with an imposing fireplace along the back wall. It wasn't her thing either though she couldn't help but appreciate the grandeur.

Sherlock set her bag on the window seat, throwing his coat along side. "It's doubtful there's food in the house...keeps Mycroft from eating, but we can pick some up later. There might be tea in the kitchen, but the liquor cabinet is stocked. Help yourself."

"Thank you." She offered a tired smile. "If you don't mind, a shower and sleep would be nice."

He offered an understanding nod, and pointed to the staircase. "Right. You're in luck," he said, taking the stairs two at a time. "I know for a fact that Mycroft's housekeeper was here on Friday and cleaned my room. Well, the room where I used to stay."

He led her down the long corridor lined with paintings of ancestors, where she found it quite odd that they all seemed damaged with some sort of staining that dripped from the eyes. It felt eerily baroque with two suits of armor that flanked the middle of the expansive hall, and seemed like the perfect setting for a haunting.

"Tell me," she asked, "are there hidden chambers and staircases, as well?"

He smiled. "A few."

"Perfect for skeletons in the closet and clandestine rendezvous."

"You have no idea," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Um, was your home like this too?"

It seemed like such a simple question, even though she knew better. Years ago, after they first met, he deduced almost everything about her background, with a few exceptions. Her relationship with family proved to be more difficult and she wouldn't budge other than to say time and a demanding career left her distant from close relatives. Since then, he would hedge now and again for more information, but the only piece she volunteered, at a time when it seemed important, was that her father had passed away.

"No. It's Georgian." Their skeletons, she kept to herself, were definitely not hidden.

Sherlock pushed open the door to a comfortably sized room, with a large, antique four poster bed, its sides draped with long fabric. It felt comfortable with the creamy walls and ornate paneling, and while she would have liked to appreciate more, the beginning of a headache gnawed at her, leaving her wanting nothing more than the soothing balm of hot water and sleep.

"Bathroom's through there." he pointed to a door off to her right. "I'm going to, uh, look for some clothes."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You'll tell me everything?" The worry on her face was unmistakable.

He nodded and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Molly climbed into bed, the cotton sheets feeling cool against her warm, still damp skin. The hot shower relaxed her muscles, but seemed to do nothing for the endless stream of chatter taking place in her mind. She couldn't begin to imagine what Sherlock wasn't telling her, or that there was anything worse than Jim Moriarty coming back from the dead - the latest thought in a long line of unimaginable, and no less impossible, things to ponder. Then there was the phone call, and trying to make sense of the distance she covered between then and now.

The momentum of those thoughts exhausted her even more, especially since she'd been awake since the very early hours of Sunday morning, when Toby first became ill. Toby...the other thought that plagued her, leaving her heartbroken, although grateful she had the privacy of the shower to cry. Now, finally, with her head resting comfortably on the thick, down pillow, she pushed away the thoughts that wanted to take over and rob her of the welcome reprieve of sleep.

Moments later, she felt the depression in the mattress and Sherlock's naked body pressed against hers. The scent of soap lingered on his skin and she let out a small, involuntary gasp from the wet strands of hair grazing her face.

"I knew you were awake," he whispered, placing a kiss along her cheek. "Are you okay?"

"Yes."

Draping his arm across her chest, he pulled her tight against his body. "Earlier...I heard you crying."

"Oh," she groaned softly, burying her face in the pillow. "I didn't know..."

"You haven't had it easy the past few days."

"Neither have you...I doubt you were weeping in the shower" she said, feeling foolish.

He gently pushed away her hair to kiss the back of her neck. "No. I did mine earlier...when I thought I'd lose you, and...for other things."

Molly heard his sharp intake of breath, and shifted her body to face him. The room was dark and though he was a shadowed figure laying along side her, she could feel the sorrow in his eyes. "I'm so sorry I couldn't hear you."

"It worked out. After all, I got to put my penis in you," he teased, making her laugh.

She lifted her face to kiss him. "Yes, you did."

"Fair warning, I'm going to do it again." He tugged her t-shirt over her head.

"Well, you did say you weren't done with me yet," she moaned, kissing his chest, taking his erection in her hand, and slowly massaged its length.

His voice was thick and hoarse. "Not nearly."

She felt the quivering of his body, the increase of his breath, as she trailed her lips and tongue down his hips, along the inside of his thigh. "That's good," she whispered. "I'm not done with you yet, either."

* * *

 **Dear readers - I am deeply sorry it's taken so long to post this chapter! I'm not normally this slow, but regular life sometimes gets in the way (how dare it, right?) so thank you for your patience, and for reading. Let's hope the remaining chapters move along more quickly.**

 **For all those who've left lovely reviews and made this story a favorite - wow - no words! It's encouragement for the soul and you have my warmest gratitude! Merci beaucoup!  
**

 **Hugs xx P.**


	6. Ghost Story

Ghost Story

 _Some memories will never leave, no matter how deep you bury them, or the drugs you inject to erase the shadows. Their sinewy tendrils wind their way through your body, fusing themselves to your bones and joints, forever guiding each step, and become the billowed hand that decides when and how you breathe._

 _He would replay that memory throughout his very long life as punishment for his arrogance and pride; for his dazzling brilliance and believing he could offer the freedom of Justice to the mere mortals of the world. How could he have known that each choice, each turn in the road, would leave him chained to the cliffs reserved for the fallen demigods, and that the very thing he sought, the peace of death, would be forever cast from his reach._

 _Sometimes, most of the time, he changed the memory in search for one that would stick. One that would become the new reality, at least for a short while, when he'd visit her in his mind - a place where she was safe, and happy and nothing bad would ever touch her. She would pick up and it would take a lot of convincing, including his acquiescence, to get her to say the words that would save her life, but she would do it. He would smash the coffin, never to be reminded of the moment that nearly consumed them both, and when he made it out alive he would spend the rest of his life being her champion, and convincing her of his love._

 _Throughout his long years, he would see her walk through the door of his flat at 221B Baker Street, smiling brightly, almost running toward him to offer a warm embrace, where he would place a gentle kiss upon her cheek, and whisper in her ear - I love you. He would fill her up with babies and laughter, have conversations about nothing and everything, and create a language with their bodies that only they understood. He would do all of this until the moment faded and the darkness took over._

 _There might have been a map reference for hell at Sherrinford, but he didn't need one - hell lived within himself._

 _Eurus frowned at the failed test. "That was unexpected. I truly thought she would say it. And, why wouldn't I? She jumped at every request you've ever given her, no matter the endless disappointments." Eurus took in a deep breath, and offered an insincere grimace. "I'm sorry, but I lied and fresh out explosives. It would have been kinder and Jim didn't want her to suffer. I think he might have liked her, but there are consequences for stealing what belonged to him, and failing this test, I'm afraid. Just ask the Governor. Oh, wait. You can't," she said, almost lyrically. "Never mind. I did promise you I would end her life. Live by the sword, die by the sword, for the little girl who likes to play with knives. It's rather poetic, don't you think? Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."_

 _"Nononononono, Eurus! STOP! Stopstopstopstopstop please...please, don't do this. I will do anything you ask. Anything. Please," he begged, his eyes shut tight and suffocating for breath. "Please, take me...I'll play any game you want. Take me...just take me."_

 _Eurus considered her brother. "Oh, Sherlock. I already have you, but let me think," she paused for a momentary interlude of Jim Moriarty's 'tick, tock, tick, tock'. "Alright, we'll try it your way. If you can answer this one question correctly, I'll spare her life. Agreed?"_

 _Sherlock nodded his agreement._

 _"Tell me about Redbeard. No help, Mycroft."_

 _"I've already told you...he was my dog...our dog!" Sherlock looked between his brother and the screen._

 _"Wrong. Consider this a mercy. She's already suffered long enough."_

 _The screen flickered back on, where he watched her in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, her face buried in her arms. But, it was the door that was kicked open that sent his heart racing, his shouting drown out by the screams from the video feed._

 _She tried to fight, but taken off-guard and over-powered too quickly. Her mouth taped over, arms tied behind her back, the intruder tore her sweater open, and pulled her head back to expose her neck. She fought the best she could, the effort to escape pointless, as he yanked her body in position for the camera, and slit her throat - holding her there, eyes widened in terror, until the last kick of life left her body - then dropped her to the floor, where she lay in a pool of her own blood._

* * *

Sherlock's body arched from the bed, the cotton fabric stuck to his sweaty skin, and each gasping breath felt like a fiery whip squeezing at his lungs, burning him from the inside out. Violent waves of nauseousness left him stumbling to the bathroom where he clung to the side of the toilet, heaving the unthinkable from his stomach. He repeated to himself it was only a dream, a nightmare, but it did nothing to calm the uncontrollable shaking that brought him to the floor, his face buried in a towel to silence his cries. He failed them...first Mary and now her.

Looking back toward the bedroom, he saw the place where she had slept...now an empty space occupied only by tangled sheets and the pillows where she rested her head. He needed to pull himself up, command each foot to go before the other, as though he were holding tightly to a life rope that would bring him closer to knowing she was real, and that she had been in that very spot.

Having lived through dispossession more times than he cared to remember - whether it was from cocaine or torture, and sometimes they felt the same - he knew all too well the effects of hallucinatory deprivation. That's all this was...his brain rewiring the synapse from lack of sleep, reorganizing information, deciding what to keep and what to discard.

Holding the pillow to his face, he took in her scent...another reassurance she was alive, and his nightmare only a ghost story. "For God's sake," he muttered to himself, grateful that his heart was no longer pounding its way out of his chest. "Pull yourself together." He hadn't had a cigarette in ages, not even during his last binge, but he wanted - _needed_ \- one now, and tossed the pillow back on the bed.

Releasing a heavy sigh, he picked the flannel pajama bottoms off the floor, pulled them over his chilled, goosebump covered skin, then searched for his t-shirt, and dressing gown. He was being irrational, he thought, tugging his shirt over his head, flirting dangerously with romantic entanglement, where the cost was high and the winner took all. Molly might know him better than anyone, but she didn't know the rules, or the price she'd have to pay.

Now, the Woman, she knew. He and Irene played a game of ascendancy and lust, one that challenged every bit of emotional and physical control he mastered. In the end, when he believed all had been lost, that she had gained the upper hand over him, would he emerge victorious. ' _Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side,'_ was the vicious prompt he offered, exposing the vulnerability that brought her to her knees. Irene's heart had given her away, leaving her bereft and broken.

In his remembering, he stood at the window of his flat, with an easy and careless smile, tossing his trophy into the air: her phone, the great protector of her life. Until it wasn't, and he stepped in and stole her from clutches of death, then surrendered himself to her for one night. He would give her that triumph and the possibility for more.

Janine, even in her hurtful protest and wounded pride, knew the game...especially as she unwittingly set the rules of engagement. She wanted freedom from a tyrannical oligarch, who would flick her face, and humiliate her into worthlessness. Although it nearly cost him his life, he was wrong and came through for her, accidental as it was. He gave her the honor of the scandalous headlines she desired, entrance into circles she sought after, and a cottage in Sussex. She was free and, in the process, gained his friendship.

He had nothing to give Molly. Her game is that she didn't have one, and that made her vulnerable, and placed directly in the path of a danger she could never fully understand, and one he never wanted to comprehend. She didn't deserve this life, he didn't deserve her, and yet here he was, wrestling with the same argument that spun him right back to the beginning.

He sat on the edge of the bed, head buried in hands, his shoulders sagged heavy with the ineradicable weight of worry. Tousling his knotted mop of curls, he hitched in a deep breath and swallowed down another wave of nauseousness. There was no other way, if he was going to do this, romantic entanglement, she'd have to know the rules: That her life would never be safe, no matter the illusion, and that looking over her shoulder at all times, never taking anything for granted, would become her new normal. He would never keep important secrets from her, but any life they made together would come last to his work. There would be no weekends at pubs, dinner dates at restaurants, or anything that would draw attention to her relationship with him. She would be alone, in the background, as though an incidental blip that only came into casual contact with him. Lastly, there will never be children...this was non-negotiable. To prove his veracity, he would gladly...alright, maybe not gladly, obtain a vasectomy. He'd even let her do it, since she'd been twisting his balls almost from day one. Okay, bad idea since she wasn't a Urologist.

It's doubtful anyone would ever suspect, including Molly, but as far as human beings were concerned, he had no problem with children, and rather liked them far more than what they would eventually grow into. They were easy to talk with, well, the older ones, like Archie. Why the mother had a difficult time managing the boy, when it was quite simple, was puzzling. Stop smothering the lad and allow his curiosity the room to grow. It was no wonder children grew up to become neurotic adults, a mere twisted shade of their former selves. They were too busy being controlled by well-meaning 'people' who thought they knew better, forced into conforming to the wishes of their parents, instead of allowing them to simply become. Then there was the cruelty, or the monomaniacal derangement that would strip children of their innocence...

While the loss of Molly was too devastating to contemplate, the loss of a child would be unbearable. And, that, had been a constant undercurrent running through is mind when he first suspected Mary was pregnant, and especially later. Godparents to Rosie would have to be enough, and it would take all of them to keep her safe from the dangers of the world, let alone the life he and her father led. He closed his eyes and shuddered at the unthinkable idea that Rosie could have been at Baker Street when the grenade went off...at the very least downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.

In his nightmare, he promised to spend the rest of his life loving Molly, making her happy, filling her with babies...but he now wondered in what Universe that would ever be possible? Between drug addiction and the dangerous, but brilliant, genetic swamp from which he emerged, proliferation of his DNA was akin to playing Russian roulette...a game of chance where the odds were not stacked in his, or her, favor.

That was it, then. He would go downstairs and apprise her of the cameras in her house - for how long was anyone's guess - and, incidentally, that she was watched not only by him, but John and Mycroft as well. Oh, and by the way, her poisoned, dead cat was simply a manipulation to have her home at that exact time. He once told her, ' _welcome to my world_ ,' and wondered if it bear repeating? Probably so. Even John's comment found a way to sneak into his thoughts and while it pained him to admit he was right, meeting at a discreet Harvester, then nights of passion in High Wycombe, would have been far less complicated. Perhaps Molly would be open to that option?

Raising his arms above his head, he stretched out the aching muscles of his back, then noticed the light on his phone, and the vibration causing it to zigzag across the bedside table. He took in a deep breath to steady himself before answering. "Mycroft."

He never understood why Mycroft didn't like texting, other than having the sheer pleasure of hearing his own voice, while irritating Sherlock with his condescension. This wasn't one of those moments, though, and while he had mixed feelings toward his brother for all the secrets and lies, the burden that had been placed upon his shoulders by their uncle was one he never should have had to carry. Their parents had been located off the coast of Greece and a private jet arranged for their immediate return to London.

 _"Of course," Mycroft added, his voice echoing through the speaker of the phone, "their first thought was you'd fallen off the wagon again, or committed another murder -"_

"The honor of that goes to their other child this time. Five, no six, if I counted correctly." Sherlock mumbled while brushing his teeth. "Then there's the cat."

 _"Oh, for God's sake, can you please take this seriously? And, what are you doing? I can barely understand a word you're saying."_

"I am. Nothing. Continue."

 _"Yes, well, I'll meet with them here in my office tomorrow at Five. You'll be here, of course."_

Sherlock finished applying a thick layer of shaving cream to his face, then carefully guided a less than sharp razor blade over his chin and neck. "Wouldn't miss it."

 _"Baker Street faired better than expected, and perhaps not a complete loss. I'm still waiting on the report from our structural engineers."_

"I'll be there tomorrow to see for myself."

 _"How is Miss. Hooper adjusting to all of this?"_

He lied. "Good."

 _"Cameras were limited to the main areas of her home although, curiously, there was another feed coming in from across the street. You'll have to ask her about the neighbors. The CCTV on the corner was disabled, so they're of no use. But, you'll be relieved to know there were no explosives found."_

"What about the cat?" Sherlock asked, washing away the remaining streaks of shaving cream.

 _"Ethylene glycol, commonly found in -."_

"I know what it is," he interrupted, drying his face.

 _"You also know what this means."_

"Of course."

 _"A few, minor precautions wouldn't be amiss."_

"I'm aware, Mycroft. Anything else?"

 _"She can return tomorrow but, in the mean time, I've called the local market and arranged a delivery. Just a few basics, but included the French yogurt she likes."_

"How do you know?"

 _"Why wouldn't I? I'll see you tomorrow."_

Sherlock heard the double beeps that ended the call and prepared himself to face Molly. He made a mental note to ask how she knew Mycroft's schedule, and how Mycroft knew her yogurt preference. And, why was he now just hearing about it? Better yet, why couldn't he see the answer...it should be obvious?

He stopped in the hallway and looked upon the damaged portraits and thought of another way to move forward. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but no one would question his motives, not even John. There is loss, and irrevocable loss - and if he had to choose he would select the former, rather than the latter. But, today wasn't that day, and for the next few hours he would allow this, allow her and commit these moments to his memory. They would have to last a very long time.

Molly sat rapt on the large, leather sofa, knees pulled to her chest and nose buried in a novel she undoubtedly found in the stacks of Mycroft's library. She carefully balanced the book and a glass jar in one hand, while the other slowly pulled a spoon from her mouth...her tongue licking away the remains on her lips. She looked peaceful, Sherlock thought, and while he wished her senses had alerted her to his presence, he was grateful for the moment to watch her unaware.

He knocked on the door frame as to not startle her and he swore when she looked up and gave him a chaste smile, his heart skipped a beat. She was relaxed, her manner easy, and sleep had certainly brought a muted, rosy glow back to her cheeks.

"Hi," she said breathlessly, or maybe it was just soft, but either way it sounded like the a perfect middle C, its vibrato pulling him forward, until he kneeled on the floor next to her. He took the jar and spoon from her hands, pushed away the book and laid his head in her lap, where her fingers were automatically guided to mingle with his dark, tangled curls.

She leaned in and kissed him on top of his head, the long strands of her hair sweeping over his face. "Are you okay?"

He wrapped his arms tight around her waist, pressed his face against her belly and closed his eyes. There were no options, or plans, and he couldn't remember the rules. Love wasn't logical or rational, and for now, it left him helpless against the truth.

"No...I'm not okay."


	7. Bright Baby Blues

Bright Baby Blues

 _"I can see it in your eyes, you've got those bright baby blues. You don't see what you've got to gain, but you don't like to lose._

 _You watch yourself from the sidelines like your life is a game, you don't mind playing to keep yourself amused._

 _I don't mean to be cruel, baby, but you're looking confused."_

 _~Jackson Browne~_

Molly's concerned gazed drifted to Sherlock, as she brushed the hair away from his face. "Tell me what's wrong," she whispered, though he remained unmoving, except for the almost imperceptible shaking of his shoulders.

"I don't trust myself." His voice was soft, but came with the hard edge that matched his statue still body. "I got it wrong."

"You must have done something right. You're still here," she offered reassuringly.

He chuckled sardonically. "Always looking for the best in things."

Molly leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his head. This wasn't the first time he shared his self-doubt. "Well, the best in you."

"Why?"

"We all have broken parts, Sherlock. Most of us spend our life hiding from them. You...you put yours out there for the world to see, and many times, even with all the appreciation, it's been a bit cruel and mean in return. But, it's never stopped you. You never stop showing how much you care."

"You're confusing me with someone else." He scoffed and shook his head at the ridiculous notion she wanted him to believe.

"I think you're confusing yourself. And," she quickly changed the subject, patting his back. "I have a confession to tell you, but only if you get up off that bloody floor." Molly held his arm as he steadied himself to the sofa, where he flopped along side her...hints of depression threatening to pounce if he allowed. "Your body is covered with bruises and inflammation...everything has to ache. Were you even checked out after the explosion?"

He kept his eyes closed and released a deep sigh. "I'm just tired and need a cigarette. Mycroft has them stashed everywhere."

"You need food, and probably a round of steroids, except maybe not the best idea this soon..." She didn't have to finish her thought. They both knew the cost of addiction, and the toll on his body from the last time.

"But first," he said, tipping his head in her direction, "think of me as your priest."

She shook her head and smiled. "Your face, when you met Tom, was priceless."

Sherlock sighed. "Soooo disappointing."

Molly looked sheepishly between her hands and Sherlock. "It was me who made him wear it...the coat and scarf."

He sat up straight and looked at her abruptly, his interest piqued. "Why?"

"Because," she began, hesitantly. "That's all you'd see. A poor imitation of yourself, think I was an idiot or blind to the similarities and...you'd leave him alone." Molly gave him an exaggerated look that suggested he think very hard before speaking.

"I don't understand. Why would you -" he stopped mid-stream, realizing exactly what she meant.

"The point is, I told myself I was protecting him, when I was really protecting myself. Even if you never said anything, I would see it in your face and I wasn't ready." She tugged at a loose thread on the woolen throw covering her legs. "I was so angry with you for what you said about Jim... _Moriarty_ , but after I calmed down, I remembered you never lied to me. I trusted you...even if I didn't like what you said.

"I know something's wrong, Sherlock, and you think you're protecting me, but that's not how this works. You tell me the truth, even when I won't like it, and I trust you."

Sherlock released a long sigh, lowered his head and rested his palms against his face. "There were cameras in your house...only in the main areas. I watched you during that call," he said, uncertain and shaky. "Mycroft and John were with me."

"Oh," she gasped, her breath trembling.

"There's more. Your cat was poisoned to keep you distracted, and home." He scoffed, then shook his head at the memory of his own plan with John at the therapist's, and Culverton Smith. "It was a devised scenario by someone who knew you well. Ethylene glycol is fairly fast acting, which means while you were sleeping someone was in your house making sure you'd have a really bad day."

Molly's eyes widen, her ability to speak gone.

"Mycroft called earlier, you can go home in the morning. The cameras have been removed, but they found another feed coming in from across the street. You might not know your neighbors as well as you think."

Molly sat very still, her silence and lack of response unsettling. Sherlock watched as she quickly wiped away a fallen tear, but then lowered her head causing her long hair to hide any further expression. After a moment, she lifted herself from the sofa and made her way to a small table in the corner of the room that held Mycroft's decanter of whiskey. Pouring herself a dram, she drank it down quickly, then looked at Sherlock. "Would you like one?" She asked, as though entertaining an unexpected guest. Before he could say anything, she responded for him. "Of course you don't." Then poured herself another small amount, before moving to stand alongside the hearth.

She stared into the empty grate and frowned. "It's chilly. Maybe you could start a fire?"

Sherlock moved toward her slowly, his voice calm and reassuring. "You're not in any danger. It's over."

Nodding, she made her way to the door, but stopped abruptly. "Earlier, at my house...were we watched?"

"No," he answered emphatically.

"You should have told me from the start." Molly said, leaving the room to go upstairs.

* * *

Not knowing if she took the news better than expected, or worse than he thought, Sherlock chose not to follow. After nearly six years, he knew all to well when to pursue, and when to fall back, allowing her the time to sort things through on her own.

He stacked wood on the fireplace grate, lit a match while turning the gas key, and watched the kindling smolder then catch fire. The dancing blue and orange flames triggered the memory of the cold April evening when he told Molly about Jim 'from 'IT'' Moriarty. Afterward, she all but disappeared for five months, though John would say she was 'conspicuously unavailable' and, for a genius, Sherlock should know why.

Eventually, he contrived a reason to visit her at home, unexpectedly of course, when he saw she renovated her kitchen and new paint throughout her home. But, it was the replaced bedroom furniture that caught him off-guard, and set his mind spinning in wonder. He didn't understand why it bothered him, and he had no right to ask, but it would remain a lingering question - was this a choice for something new, or because she wanted to erase a memory?

Sherlock rubbed his eyes against the memory, with a desire to push it as far away as possible. He was glad alcohol wasn't one of his vices, because he was fairly certain he'd choose whiskey over food right now...and even that wasn't appealing. He settled on a cup of tea, lit a cigarette and stared at the film projector. Mycroft was right...he had no idea who, and what, he was dealing with.

Threading the film back on it's reel, he watched himself play on the beach with his parents and brother, having a distant memory of the day. They were on holiday, waiting to move into their new home, with his father explaining that things had to be 'just so' for his mother. The events of a few short weeks earlier, when he had a younger sister name Eurus, who killed his best friend, then locked him in his room to die in a blazing house fire, were gone. Completely obliterated from his mind.

Viktor...after all these years his parents would know the fate of their young son: That while playing, he strayed from the grounds and fallen into an abandoned well no one knew about, where he died. Mycroft insisted this was the greater kindness, and what Viktor's family needed most was peace...not a horror story where a five year old child was capable of such monstrous deeds.

He took in a deep drag of the cigarette and blew it out slowly, wondering how his parents could have allowed the lie to go on for so long. Logically, the desire to protect a young child dealing with trauma made sense, but as he became older, with greater reasoning facilities, was there never a time they thought it wise to tell him the truth? He once told Mrs. Hudson he had a list of questions for his mother, but now he only had one: Why?

The heavy storm caused rain to spatter against the windows, and it's howling wind echoed through the quiet room. Lightening had caused the lights the flicker several times, leaving the house to feel more eerie with emptiness. He thought of Molly, and whether or not she was ready for his company, she had spent enough time alone.

* * *

He knocked on the bedroom door before entering, more as an announcement than permission, to find her sitting on the bed, her overnight case and belongings spread out before her.

"Going somewhere?" He asked, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

She remained quiet, leaving him uncertain if she even knew he was there.

"I don't know my neighbors that well," she said with a start. "We say 'hello', or comment on the weather. There's Mr. Ferguson, but he's ancient and lives next door. Still, maybe...," she looked at Sherlock, "I could go rough him up a bit, get him to talk. Better yet, sneak a barbiturate in his tea."

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Oh, just getting my things together," she answered, nonchalantly, getting off the bed to restart her packing. "You know, if you had told me from the start, I could have checked the nanny cam. Doubtful it caught anything, unless whoever was in my house went to the spare room...well, Rosie's room."

"Why do you have a nanny cam?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "I-I don't know. I asked a few mums and dads at work, bought some books about baby things, and what to do." She paused to make sense of her own thoughts. "Sherlock, I went from being Rosie's godmother, to taking care of her almost full time and it's not like I knew what I was doing." Molly glared at him with the look of surprise that comes with most epiphanies. "Oh, you're one of _those_ men, aren't you?" She questioned, scornfully. "Not surprising."

He narrowed his eyes in bewilderment. "Those men?"

"A pronatalist. You think that just because I have breasts and vagina I'm suppose to instinctually know."

He crossed his arms and leaned against the clothes cupboard. "There's something to be said for genetic coding and hormones," he offered teasingly, although it was missed.

"Destiny assumption has been proven to be without basis. For Christ's sake, it didn't even make Maslow's list." Molly haphazardly folded her clothes and stuffed them in her case. "So, don't even think about lecturing me on the biological influx of hormones outweighing psychological determination, Sherlock. Can we please get back to my neighbors now?"

"I'm not going to help you interrogate your neighbors."

Molly shrugged, expecting he'd say something like this, and tossed a cosmetic bag into her overnight case. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

He watched her closely. "Whoever it was is long gone."

"Well, that just makes it easier," she protested. "Their house will be empty. If they used a false identity, there's still trace evidence, right? Finger prints, DNA, there's always something left behind."

"Mycroft has people taking care of it."

"That's not good enough." Molly stood her ground, fists balled at her side, with eyes closed.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, although knew the answer. He sat on the bed and patted the empty space next to him. "Talk to me."

Molly's eyes were heavy with sadness, and though Sherlock thought she might actually give in, she went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. A few moments later he heard the running of bath water, no doubt to escape him and her thoughts.

Sherlock waited on the bed, his back against the headboard, contemplating how he could let Molly have this. He understood the need to feel safe was important, and seen this behavior hundreds of times, but giving her the illusion of an investigation was something else. She would see it as a lie, and he wasn't ready to tell her about Eurus and how she infiltrated Molly's life, just as she did with he and John. Or, that Eurus had contact with Moriarty, and played a very long game, getting to know all the players...the longest being Molly. After all, she was his weakest link.

* * *

The bathroom door opened unexpectedly, with Molly stepping into the room, clouds of steam moving before her. He slowly moved to the edge of the bed, taken by scent of lilac, her flesh glistening and still pink from the hot water.

"I didn't know you were here." She looked hastily away, holding tight at the towel wrapped around her body. "I left my clothes -"

"Here." Sherlock removed his dressing gown and held it up for her to slip into, the silk clinging to her damp skin. His hand brushed the back of her neck, lifting her long hair from under the collar, and laid in gently along her shoulders.

"Thank you."

He lifted her chin to face him. "I should have told you."

Molly placed a hand on his chest, her fingers circling the fabric of his shirt. "I know you always do your best. It's just...I don't want to feel bad about me around you."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, and tugged on the tie of the silken robe to pull Molly between his legs. His hands ran along the fabric that hung loose around her waist, settling at her hips, then offered her a sad smile. He wouldn't give her an investigation, but he could give her this.

"Before I spoke with you," he began hesitantly, then briefly closed his eyes before looking into hers. His mouth felt dry as in protest to speaking words he'd rather left unsaid, making it painful to swallow. "I watched five people die...a man committed suicide to save his wife, but she was killed anyway because the conditions of a test weren't met. After that, three men were dropped to their deaths in the sea. You were next and, I had every reason to believe you would die if..." Sherlock let out a shaky breath, unable to finish, then looked at Molly, his eyes weary with strain. "For just a little while, Molly, I didn't want to be reminded of that."

Molly cradled him to her breast, her eyes welled in silent tears for his pain, her own forgotten. "I am so very sorry," she whispered, resting her cheek against his curls, her long hair sweeping over his back like a blanket.

"Why didn't you pick up?" The words left his mouth as though a force beyond his control did his bidding, leaving his heart to race at the memory.

"Is that important now?" Still resting against him, Molly knew, even before asking, her question would be met with silence. Pulling away, she saw his eyes banked with sorrow, and ran a tender hand along his cheek before sitting beside him. "It had been a bad day...Toby died and why else would you call other than needing something. I didn't have it in me. The only reason I picked up the second time is because you don't normally call." She looking at him knowingly. "You text. That's why I asked if it was urgent."

"The person who did this didn't just want you home, they wanted you upset and exposed; they knew what I had to ask you...you wouldn't want to say." His voice was unsteady, and tinged with bitter resentment, but the slight tremor in his hands began to calm when Molly placed a reassuring hand over his.

"They couldn't have known us that well, Sherlock," she said, leaning against him, lacing her arm around his. "On a good day I doubt it would have been much different."

"You have loved me this whole time, and I couldn't see it." He wouldn't look at her, uncertain if it was shame, or his ignorance, but the weight of emotions felt nearly unbearable.

"Just because something's true, doesn't make it right," she teased softly.

"Can you forgive me?"

She placed her hand against his cheek, guiding him to face her. "Can you forgive me?"

"What for?"

She offered a small shrug. "Anything."

His eyes widened at the ineffable. The nature of love squeezed at his heart, cracked open to reveal a new mystery. It had nothing to do with chemicals, or biology; it wasn't a commodity that could be weighed in pennies and pounds, met with indifference, then bought or sold with actions and deeds. That's why he missed it...loving him had never been transactional, but given from a freedom he was just beginning to understand.

Molly shifted to kneel on the bed and faced Sherlock. Trailing a kiss from the edge of his lips to his ear, she whispered, _"Take me to bed."_ She loosened the robe and let it drift over her shoulders, pooling around her legs like the bluest of waters.

Slowly, taking his hand in hers, she studied the smooth, pale skin, tracing a line over the ridge of dark blue veins that traveled to his long fingers, with perfectly manicured nails. They were magnificent, as though carved from the finest rendering of nobility, but with light bruising and fine hash cuts as though they'd been caught in brambles. She turned it over, kissed his palm and followed the weathered, deep set lines - _life,_ _head, heart_ \- to the very edge of his string-calloused finger tips, then placed it over her breast - guiding his other hand to rest along her hip.

Looking into his eyes, she saw an uncharacteristic shyness, as though he never touched, or taken her before. It was still early, though, learning the language of the other and discovering how they fit...moments of awkwardness met with the intuition that aligns itself with the new found territory of intimacy.

He leaned in to kiss her, first slowly, parting her lips with his tongue, then breathed her in, his hands leading a slow and deliberation exploration of her body, while laying her down in the nest of cool, soft sheets. She blushed at her nakedness set against his fully clothed body, but thought it a worthy exchange of vulnerability under the circumstance...taking away his, to give him hers.

 _"I can't stop wanting you,"_ he hummed. His voice was rich and smooth, and tingled through her like the warm pleasure of aged whiskey. She shivered from the light touch of his tongue, and the kisses trailed to her breasts, capturing her nipples so they rose hard under his thoughtful attention.

A small beam of light from a lamp shadowed his black hair with threads of blue silver, causing the movement of her fingers through his curls to look like soft waves under a moonless night sky.

He lifted his hips to free himself, as she clumsily tugged at his shirt tangled within a sheet. He released a deep throaty chuckle. _"I've got it,"_ he moaned, and pulled it off his body in one fluid movement, then nipped at her ear and neck - where her skin, warm and tasting of salt and flower scented oils, lingered on his tongue.

 _"Mmmm...I need you..._ " Her voice trembled with a rising desire so breathy and slight she worried the appeal unheard.

He gave a small, mischievous smile she couldn't see, and complied with an easy acquiescence - the strong muscles of his legs opening her thighs in a grateful response. He brought himself into her in one gentle stroke, shuddering under her warm touch. Closing the boundary between their bodies, he led them in a slow, gentle dance, skin to skin, and floating in and out of each other like a dream, rising in the power of need when, at last, their cries of fulfillment fell peacefully around them.

Remembering a poem from Rumi, forced upon him by education, and met with a contemptuous distaste, he now understood its meaning. She was the bridge to everything, between confusion and understanding, between longing and allowing and, for this moment, the solace eclipsing the pain from memories best forgotten.

She lay breathless in the crook of his arm, then opened her eyes to meet the palest of blue topaz looking back. "I love you," she whispered.

He pulled her close, allowing her words to move through him like the relief of fresh air, while knowing, for the first time, they were given freely and without regret.

Laying on his side, he nipped at her shoulder, while his hand, resting on her belly, felt a rolling grumble beneath and smiled. "Feeling a bit peckish?"

"Famished, actually," she giggled softly, as he covered a nipple with his mouth, leaving her to shiver. "Yogurt with a whiskey chaser isn't what I'd call breakfast of champions."

He begrudgingly lifted himself from the bed, pulling up his pajama bottoms, and tugged at her to follow. "Speaking of which," he said, taking the dressing gown and wrapping her inside its warmth. "Mycroft knows your favorite yogurt. How?"

"Does he?" She gave him a look of surprised amusement. "A good guesser?"

Taking her hand and leading them out the door, he eyed her suspiciously. "Quid pro quo, Molly Hooper. How do you know when Mycroft isn't here?"

"He must have told me." She wrapped her arm around his waste and smiled.

"Obviously," he added, his arm resting along her shoulders. "When?"

"Oh, I can't tell you." Molly walked a few steps further, only to realize Sherlock stopped following.

"Why the hell not?"

"Official States Secret Act."

"That makes no sense," he said, a disappointed frown twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"It does," she stepped closer, holding his shirt while rising to her tip toes to kiss his chin. "When someone decides to play dead for two years."

"That's me."

"Yes."

"So, you can tell me," he insisted.

She winked and turned to go back down the hall, leaving him to catch up. "Sorry, you're out of the loop. I mean, it's not exactly like you could sign it, right? You were dead, after all."

"But it's about me!"

"I know."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

She took his hand, and led him down the stairs. "More than you know."

A loud crack of thunder, followed by lightening caused the lights to once again flicker and go out. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock reached into his pocket for his mobile phone's flashlight, only to realize he left it upstairs. "I'll find some candles."

"Second drawer of the credenza, Sherlock, next to the candlesticks, alongside the large silver platter." Walking into the kitchen, Molly chuckled to herself. It felt good to have a few secrets of her own.

* * *

 **Note:** Thank you, everyone, for your generous and thoughtful reviews, following this story, or saving it as a favorite. They are the breath of life, and like really, really good chocolate. :-) Sorry this chapter took so long to post...life sometimes has a way of...getting in the way. Happy November, lovelies!


	8. Conversations with Mary

Conversations with Mary 

Molly woke with a start, rubbed her eyes against the disorientation and attempted to adjust to the room that was just as dark as when she fell asleep. She carefully slipped from Sherlock's embrace for the bathroom, where she washed and dressed, then stared at the person in the mirror looking back at her. _'Who are you?'_ _'What are you doing?_ ' she mouthed, wondering how her life had led her here. She finger combed her long hair, vining it into a loose plait, before applying a concealer to the puffy and tired circles under her eyes.

Leaning against the vanity, she winced at the sharp pain coming from her hip and lowered the top of her leggings to reveal the dark bruises that had finally taken form. Tracing her finger over the pale, purple-blue shapes, she remembered how she begged of him, wanted his mark upon her body and released a scoff that she got her wish after all. The evidence of him embraced almost every inch of her, inside and out, from the dull ache in her vagina, to the red marks on her tender skin from his whiskers, and even the bruising from his small bites, and strong hands. She thought it was little wonder that many women found it difficult to separate between sex and love; their whole bodies were consumed within the physical and emotional act of joining with another, many times causing a spark of creation that takes the form of new life. _We were built for a total immersion experience_ , the small voice in her mind said, but not without adding _'if we choose'_ as a qualifier.

She had always been pragmatic in her relationships, even with Tom, but when it came to Sherlock, something else took over. An inexplicable energy that, in spite of her best efforts, would never go away. She never quite understood what bound her to him so tightly that even when loving another, Sherlock always hummed in the background. He was the part of her conscious that spoke when she least expected it and reminded her she would never stray too far.

Warm tears stung at the back of her eyes, and she quickly grabbed a towel to bury her face, and any noise that might escape, as she allowed her emotions their release. It wasn't sadness prevailing, but instead anger with herself - anger for letting things go this far. Anger for moving against her intuition. Anger for being uncertain. Anger for not feeling the ease of being in love with him, when that's all she ever wanted. She could master anything and everything else, but not from this place...not knowing if he truly meant the things he said. That, most of all, is what she didn't trust. She knew he cared for her the way one friend cares for another. And, she was sure he believed he loved her, or at least thought he did, but the small, growing knot in her stomach - _solar plexus_ , she reminded herself - told her something different. How could one person change so dramatically overnight?

In her mind, she chanted Mary's name over and over as an invocation for counsel, or perhaps not to feel so alone on the path that lay before her. She missed her friend, the camaraderie of sisterhood, all the talks into the wee hours of the night - the excitement of sharing their hopes and the tears of their disappointments. But, mostly, the comfort each was able to provide for the other.

* * *

 _"You know he loves you."_

 _"Who?" Molly cast an inquisitive look at Mary._

 _Mary stopped to rub her lower back before waddling over to the counter. "Sherlock. He loves you."_

 _Molly raised a furrowed eyebrow. "Not funny."_

 _"He misses you. Says he calls and texts all the time. You never answer."_

 _"I wouldn't know anything about that," she said, pulling a steaming pasta dish from the oven._

 _"Because you blocked him." Mary groaned while lifting herself to the bar stool and looked greedily upon the Italian cuisine._

 _"No wonder I've had months of peace. If he's texting that much, it only means he needs something."_

 _"Send him a text," Mary encouraged. "Italian's his favorite, he'd be right over."_

 _"Please stop. Let's talk about John for a change. How's it going?" Molly reached inside the refrigerator and pulled out two salad plates. "You'll love this. I grew the lettuce myself, in the window"_

 _"Not much to say." Mary shook open the linen napkin, looked at the expanse of her growing belly, and was reminded, as though she really needed that, she had no lap to lay it upon. "Bib? Or trust my luck?"_

 _"Trust your luck," Molly chuckled._

 _"I lied about who I am, shot his best friend, and he can't forgive me."_

 _"He'll come around," Molly offered sympathetically. "I know he will."_

 _"Weighing things out," Mary began, "what I did, I never thought you'd forgive me, let alone talk to me again."_

 _"I'm still not sure I understand...forgiveness isn't easy to explain."_

 _"You can forgive me, but not him?"_

 _"It's not the same. Eat your salad." Molly shook her head and stabbed at a strawberry._

 _"No. What I did is much worse. Do you really need to let the pasta sit? The baby's starving."_

 _"Dark greens first. And, can we please not talk about this?"_

 _"It's very painful being hurt by someone you've trusted and love."_

 _Mary closed her eyes in regret. The small quiver in her chin caught Molly's attention as a reminder their conversation was more about John, than Sherlock._

 _"I'm sorry, Mary, but you know you're projecting, right?" Molly frowned._

 _"Maybe. But, Sherlock sees me almost every day. Texts all the time...'Time for your vitamins, small meals, get off your feet.' He's worse than a mother hen...even signed us up for birthing classes in case John doesn't come through. That's how miserable he is."_

 _Molly smiled. "I'm glad he's there for you. Oh, I forgot the bread. It's the recipe you gave me." Molly pulled the French loaf from the oven, tossing it in her hands. "Hot! Hot!"_

 _Mary sighed. "You're not going to give an inch, are you?"_

 _"That's pregnancy hormones talking."_

 _"Yeah, they make you more intuitive. You'll find out one day."_

 _Molly hesitated while slicing the bread, and looked away uncomfortably. "I'm pretty sure I can't have children."_

 _"What? Oh, Molly, I-I didn't know. I'm sorry."_

 _"It's not the worst thing in the world," she offered dismissively, and went back to slicing the bread. "There's always adoption."_

 _"What did your doctor say?"_

 _"There's a chance...with tests, procedures. It's just...it's not important."_

 _"Did Tom know?"_

 _"He wasn't interested...and I wasn't ready."_

 _"So that's why you broke things off?" Mary asked carefully._

 _"Partly."_

 _"What else?"_

 _"Life things, I suppose."_

 _"You mean Sherlock. I should have seen it straight away, that he stayed here."_

 _"He," Molly sighed, "wasn't here when we were together. I hardly saw him at all."_

 _"I wouldn't think so."_

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"He didn't like Tom."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"He'll never like anyone you're with." Mary moaned through her first bite of pasta. "So why'd he stay here? Sherlock." ._

 _"He needed help with a case. I-I didn't know what he was doing."_

 _"And?"_

 _"Nothing. We barely saw each other. I was usually upstairs when he'd come in."_

 _"Upstairs? Your bedroom's down the hall." Mary gasped out a laugh, her eyes widening._

 _"He used it. We agreed he needed the space."_

 _"Oh my God, you can't write telly this good!"_

 _"What's so funny?"_

 _"Tell me more. Did you have candlelight dinners?"_

 _"Of course not!" Molly glared with incredulity. "He brought Chinese a few times. I was too tired to eat, but it was nice."_

 _"What else?"_

 _"I don't know," Molly shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine. "It's not like I kept a diary."_

 _"Come on, tell me more. Oh, I need a little more pasta."_

 _"Just a little," Molly answered, taking Mary's plate. "Small meals, remember? I'm sending some home with you, though. Anyway, there's nothing to tell, really. It was quiet. Don't watch movies with him." She rolled her eyes. "He never shuts up."_

 _"What'dya watch? The English Patient? Remains of the Day?"_

 _"Silence of the Lambs. He talked through the whole thing. Solved it in about ten minutes."_

 _"Yeah, 'cause he saw it before."_

 _Molly chuckled. "I just wanted to fall asleep watching a movie."_

 _"Better movies than Silence of the Lambs."_

 _"Sherlock had the remote, wouldn't give it to me."_

 _"So, he's at Baker street, winding up Janine for a fake engagement. But, also staying here with you. When was he doing all of that?"_

 _Molly shrugged her shoulder and looked away. "Dunno. Don't care."_

 _"Come on," Mary chided playfully. "Pretend it's a case, let's solve it. I'm utterly bored these days."_

 _"This is silly."_

 _"Humor me," she smiled. "I'm pregnant."_

 _Molly sighed, pushed her plate away and stared. "Just this once. Okay? Umm, we usually had coffee in the morning, because we were leaving about the same time. Sometimes I left ear-," Molly noticed Mary biting back a smile. "What?"_

 _"Nothing...continue."_

 _"What else...I fell asleep listening to the violin a few times. That was nice. Oh, there was another time..." Molly paused to consider something. "Never-mind, that doesn't count."_

 _"No, details are good. Go on."_

 _"Remember that bombing? Oh, wait, you were on your honeymoon. Anyway, I worked nearly forty hours straight, just walked in the door and had to go back. When I finally got home, I had to complete some final paper work for my dissertation. The last thing I remember is turning on my computer, but then woke up in bed."_

 _Mary choked on her tea. "He carried you upstairs?"_

 _"No. My bedroom."_

 _"Was he with you?" Mary's eyes widened in eager anticipation._

 _"No! Of course not."_

 _"Yeah, but it's still so romantic."_

 _"Excuse me?" Molly cleared their plates to the sink and plugged in the water kettle_

 _Mary shook her head and sighed. "Wow, you just can't see it, can you?"_

 _"I hope you've had your fun,"_

 _"Don't you get it? He didn't do anything with her, not if he was spending his nights with you."_

 _"So? It's his life...he can do what he wants."_

 _Mary burst out laughing. "Oh, come on! I was there for those slaps, remember? I get it...one slap, fine. He was being dangerously reckless. Two slaps is kind of pushing it. But, three slaps? That's personal. Then his comment about your engagement ring confirmed my suspicion."_

 _"I regret indulging you." Molly poured the boiling water into a tea pot, then took the honey from the cupboard. "I was angry that he lied. He could have just told me."_

 _"No he couldn't. Just admit it, you were a tiny bit jealous. He was jealous of Tom."_

 _"Now you're really being ridiculous," Molly said, her frustration rising." Jealousy is an irrational emotion that's childish. And, what's more, it implies possessiveness or possession."_

 _"You just described Sherlock."_

 _"I'll agree he's childish."_

 _"So, you don't have to be angry anymore. Give him a call. You know he feels bad."_

 _"Whatever Sherlock feels is not my problem."_

 _"Yeah, but you don't have a choice."_

 _"What?"_

 _"He's the man you love. You have to trust him again."_

 _Molly's face flushed with anger. "No, he's not, and no I don't."_

 _"You gotta lie better than that if you want to be convincing. I read your blog."_

 _"Oh god!" Molly buried her face in embarrassment. "That was a long time ago. I moved on! I wish I could delete that damn thing, I've tried everything...it won't go away."_

 _"Yeah, kind of like Sherlock. He won't go away either. Unblock him, let him explain himself, and if you still don't want to talk, I won't say another word. Promise. But, give him a chance. Life's too short to wonder about what might have been."_

 _"I don't wonder, I don't care and I'll never trust him again."_

 _"Well, you know what I think."_

 _"I'm sure you're going to tell me."_

 _"Never say never."_

* * *

Molly finished dressing, then quietly left the bedroom without waking Sherlock. She briefly stood on the staircase landing, allowing the bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows to warm her face...wistfully thinking that perhaps this was a sign she was doing the right thing.

She always appreciated the peaceful solitude of early mornings. Even when she didn't have to be at work, which was sometimes well before the crack of dawn, she'd wake up just to watch the sun rise and gather her thoughts. It was necessary to be in London for now, but one day, she thought, plugging in the electric kettle to make coffee, she'd have a new place. She closed her eyes and saw a small cottage nestled in the rolling hillside, water views of the English channel in the distance, a few fat cats, and gardens filled with herbs and vegetables. Being surrounded by loss and death, she had learned long ago to appreciate the life she'd been given, never wanting to squander the blessings. And, mornings were a blessing...a reminder there was always the chance to start again.

Slipping into her jacket, and coffee in hand, she meandered through the front garden, picking up twigs downed from the previous night's storm. The hardy salvias and Prince Charles clematis remained elegant and untouched, with a spectacular beauty. Tossing the twigs into a pile, she thought they'd make excellent kindling for an outdoor fire - once they dried out, of course. It's doubtful, however, that's something Mycroft would ever do. Everything here was perfectly manicured, the English boxwood trimmed to an exact four foot hedgerow, stately groomed and austere, just like Mycroft.

Although the Holmes brothers were very different, they carried a common trait beyond brilliant intellect - you just never knew if what they wanted you to see was true. In some respect, Molly found Mycroft easier to read, probably because she wasn't in love with him and her judgment not clouded. Still, there was an honesty that came from him, even if it was offered as a pretense, that made being around him easy and non-threatening; a characteristic that most would vehemently disagree. In return he was diligent in his respect of her, while presenting an air of aloof protection...the kind you might find from a much older brother, who you had very little in common with, other than you knew you were loved. He admired her ambition and intellect, along with her medical degrees and the pursuit of a Ph.D. It was a pragmatism that matched his own ideals of achievement.

Mycroft first brought her to his house four months after Sherlock's faked suicide. He felt she would be more at ease in the surroundings of his home, as opposed to MI6, as well as negating any potential risks, and because he was only home on weekends. She was closely watched due to Scotland Yard's investigation into Sherlock's death, and there was always the unknown, low-level Moriarty operatives that might want to make a name for themselves. Her safety, and comfort, as Mycroft put it, was paramount. Sherlock insisted. They shared a lovely lunch, with Mycroft assuring her that she could count of him for anything she needed. He offered to keep her updated on Sherlock's status, of which she declined. _"It's not that I don't care," she said. "But maybe the less I know, the better."_ She noticed a light of surprise in his eyes, and the small twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. _"Unless there's something you think I should know," her face fell, alerting Mycroft to her meaning. "We share a common grief. The loss of your brother and my friend. That's all."_ If his approbation of her was ever a question, any and all doubt was quickly annulled in that moment. Her honesty and practical manner disarmed him.

Sitting on a garden bench, she immediately regretted not paying attention to the puddled water on the rough, wooden seat and debated whether or not to get a dry pair of pants from the car, when his voice snapped her from her reverie.

"You're up early," Sherlock said, startling her from her thoughts.

"Oh! I didn't hear you," she gasped, catching her breath. "Force of habit, I suppose."

"Your patients dying to see you."

She chuckled softly and smiled. "Unfortunately, they are."

He took a sip of his coffee, surveying the landscape. "And surgeries?"

"Several a month." She caught an upwards glance at Sherlock, and thought the small talk felt almost trite, or maybe perfunctory, considering the past thirty hours. Then again, this is what she expected once the crisis began to fade. He always said she wasn't much of a conversationalist.

Sherlock wiped away the small pool of water on the seat, sat down and balanced his coffee cup on the bench arm. "Ambitious as always."

"The sun feels nice for a change."

"Still a bit chilly." He pulled the coat tight around his body, lifted the collar and tucked his hands under his arms. "You didn't sleep well."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Anxious about something?"

"A bit."

"Your house?"

Molly faltered, she hadn't thought about her house for the past thirty minutes and pushed the memory away for later. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. "Doesn't this all feel a bit odd? You...and me," she asked carefully.

"It's different."

"It's been nice, Sherlock. No, that's not what I meant," She sighed, pushing back the hair falling in her face. "There were moments, though..."

"But?"

"When I woke up, I thought if this had been with anyone else...oh sorry, maybe I shouldn't say that?" She looked at him apologetically, wondering if her honesty was a bit too much. "But, if it were, I'd have slipped away by now."

"You have a lot of those experiences?"

"Not many, but that's not the point." She leaned over and picked a small flower, absentmindedly fiddling with its petals. "I don't know what we're doing, or if whatever happened, hadn't happened, you be here."

Molly attempted to scrutinize Sherlock's stalwart gaze, but it was unfathomable. It was clear he never expected this question, but whatever was going through his mind left the knot in her belly sink like a stone.

"There's too many variables," he responded coolly.

She nodded her understanding as an automatic gesture. "Variables notwithstanding, I wouldn't have said those words."

"I'm pretty sure you mentioned that," he mused, taking another sip of coffee.

"What I'm trying to say is that being with someone should mean more than the fear of losing them." Molly released a sharp intake of breath, her voice unsteady as she continued. "I don't think you'd be here either."

"You're sure about that?"

"The fact you're not speaks for itself." Molly shifted on the bench to look at him directly. "I know what you've said, Sherlock, but in all this time you've never acted on it, never said a word. It's not that people can't change...but you're not most people. Why now?"

"I told you."

"Vulnerability is a natural causation of fear and heightened stress. People sometimes take action they later regret."

"Me? You're reducing me to chemicals in the brain?" He winced, his voice raised in offense.

"This isn't reductive, and you're not immune." She bit back. "It's no different than any other chemical influence, including drugs. You know that."

Sherlock looked at her, his mouth agape. "In monitored doses, to produce a specific effect."

"It still alters the Limbic system...what you experience and feel. Organically produced emotions do the same thing...you just can't control them the same way."

Sherlock released a heavy sigh mixed somewhere between boredom and frustration.

"You don't even like emotions, let alone acknowledge the fact you actually have them. _'All emotions, and particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things.'_ Those are your words."

"You think I'm incapable of love?"

"No. But, I think that whatever happened caused a change in you that, maybe, you haven't really thought about."

"What are you saying?"

Molly closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. "If you're not sure...we can leave this here, never think about it again."

He scoffed. "Make it disappear..."

"Yes," she answered softly.

"Is that what you want?"

"Do you?

A long, uncomfortable silence between them deepened, leaving Molly wondering what to do or say next. The knot in her stomach grew, as she tossed the flower head into a puddle by her feet, watched as the wind carried it around in circles through the water, and half wished it would carry her away too.

"We don't have to figure it out now," he said, startling Molly from her thoughts for the second time.

"No, we don't. It's just..."

"Just what?" He asked, standing, his cool, gray-blue eyes bored into her, as though stripping away any meager shield of protection she hoped to maintain.

Molly squinted at his tall frame towering over her, and held up a hand to block the sun's rays from her view. "Nothing."

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat and tousled his hair. "Do you, uh, want to head back?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We can get you settled."

"About that," she said hesitantly. "I think it's best I do it on my own. I can drop you off -"

"Molly, another check wouldn't hurt."

"Your brother made sure...he doesn't make mistakes, right?"

Sherlock pierced his lips, quickly looked away, then turned back again. "Why don't you go ahead. I, uh, have things to do, Mycroft can send a car."

"You sure?" She asked, standing and wiping away the water clinging to the back of her jacket.

He nodded. "Do you need help with anything?"

"No...um, thank you."

He turned to leave, but stopped, and came back. "I'll text you later," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She closed her eyes, and heard the crunching of wet graveled stone as walked back into the house alone.

* * *

Driving away, Molly remembered a line from a movie she saw, after things first fell apart between she and Tom. She was glad that Sherlock wasn't there to see her disappointment and heartbreak, it's doubtful he would have understood.

 _"There's few things sadder in this life, than watching someone walk away after they've left you, watching the distance between your bodies expand until there's nothing...but empty space and silence."_

There had been a lot of that lately, being walked away from, or the one doing the walking. Either way, it still felt sad and she was tired of crying. The small, determined voice in her head said to keep putting one foot in front the other and not look back. He wasn't to blame. Placed in an impossible situation, he did what he had to do, but everything that followed was driven by the intensity of circumstance...the desperate emotions that hang in the balance when your back is pressed up against the wall and you come out fighting for control. If he couldn't see it right now, he would eventually, and the words he spoke to her years ago never felt more true - _'I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain.'_

* * *

 **Apologies for how terribly long it took to post this chapter. Alas, real life sometimes gets in the way. The good news is I've been writing the next several chapters (as I worked on this one), so *hopefully* the next update won't take nearly as long.**

 **I also want to clarify, the conversation between Molly and Mary takes place about 6 months *after* Sherlock was shot. Close to the end of November of the same year. Molly's ability to forgive had a journey and hard won - it's not something that happened overnight. Actually, I have the reveal and resulting conversations outlined and partially written, but very doubtful it will find its way into this story.** **Just in case anyone wants to know, Mary told Molly what happened. It was not easy for her and a decision she didn't come to lightly, or without fully being aware of the consequences. They worked through it and, as a result, a very real and honest bond of friendship was formed - something both women very much needed.**

 **My continued thanks to those who have favored and follow this story! Your patience is appreciated! :-) Happy Holidays, everyone, no matter what, or how you celebrate.**


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